


When the Knight Falls

by ktyxdovahkiin



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Repression, Weatherleah, cyrodiil and skyrim road trip, self-knowledge, the remains of the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktyxdovahkiin/pseuds/ktyxdovahkiin
Summary: A homage to Kazuo Ishiguro's "The Remains of the Day".In the summer of 4E 203, an aged knight who has served at Weatherleah Manor all his life embarks on a journey that will take him deep into Skyrim... and into his past, and the mysteries of his own heart.Honor, mercy, and duty are the tenets he has striven to live by all his life. But how well has he done so? And will they suffice to see him through perhaps the greatest challenge he has ever faced?





	1. Weatherleah

It seems increasingly likely I really will undertake the journey I have been contemplating for some days now. All affairs within my purview here at Weatherleah are in order, and there is every reason to believe, as I have endeavored to make clear to my employer, that my trip will yield every conceivable benefit as far as the smooth running of the manor is concerned.

I will own that many of the errors that have occurred of late in several small matters relating to the management of the household are a direct consequence of my inexperience with such duties. I have, after all, been the Captain of the Guard and also Master-at-Arms here; the acumen of an accomplished butler does not number among my talents. 

However, I may venture as far as to say that were it not for my natural habits of adherence to rigorous discipline and meticulous attention to detail, these regrettable errors would have been far more serious. Indeed, and why should I not say it, at this time there is no one here at Weatherleah better suited to the position I temporarily occupy – a situation I intend to take steps to rectify forthwith.

It is necessary at this point to convey something of the exigencies of this situation I have been facing. The good Sir Doric’s purse, as accomplished an adventurer as he has been, has proved insufficient for the retention of the full complement of staff to which Weatherleah has always been accustomed. Certainly the skeleton staff of 6 including myself is a far cry from the veritable legion that was gainfully and most productively employed during the glory days when the late Roland Jemane III, of cherished memory, was the master of the manor.

I do not wish to give a misleading impression of my fellow knight Sir Doric of Alcaire, who purchased the estate some years ago and is now technically my employer. He cannot be accused of unseemly parsimony with regard to the upkeep of the estate; far from it. He has proved as open-handed with his wealth as can be expected for a man with his means. I remember well how he insisted that some way be found to continue employing as many of the staff as possible, not wishing to see any fall into an impecunious state. With current economic conditions here and elsewhere in the Empire, that was all too likely a prospect for anyone we would have to let go.

Alas, even with the resources he was able to disburse, I still found it necessary to pare down the staff from a round two dozen to a mere 6, with much reduced salaries. Since then, the task of maintaining the estate and preventing it from falling into a deplorable state of disrepair has been daunting, to say the least.

Therefore, I cannot help but see the provident hand of the Divines in the timely arrival of Michel Lylvieve’s letter last Tirdas. Sir Doric had just issued me a directive to find “another pair of hands”, as the plain-spoken young knight had put it, and had accordingly furnished me with a sum of money sufficient for the employ of just such a person. I am unsure, however, that he fully appreciates the difficulty of finding a suitable head housekeeper in such times when many of the old references are now unavailable. 

No longer may the Lord of Rosethorn in Skingrad County send a request for references to his peer the Baroness of Greymoor in Cheydinhal, for instance, to evaluate or verify the credentials of someone applying to be his seneschal or guard captain. In this particular example, both individuals are in fact deceased, casualties of the Great War. Such was the fate that befell many noteworthy and honorable individuals here in Cyrodiil, Colovian and Nibenese alike. The scars of war run more deeply than the common people may realize, in ways they may not readily perceive.

The fact of the matter is that if I had wished, I could have picked any candidate from the long list of applicants to join the staff, but I was and am still reluctant to entrust the weighty matters of Weatherleah to unproven hands. 

Just as I began to feel temporarily discouraged, however, the letter arrived, delivered from the evocatively-named town of Dragon Bridge, in Haafingar Hold, in Skyrim, where Michel Lylvieve currently resides.

We have kept up an infrequent but enthusiastic correspondence all these years, ever since she left Cyrodiil altogether. I personally have always been glad that she was able to escape the worst of the chaos in the years immediately following the conclusion of the Great War. For my part, of course, I felt obliged to stay and protect the manor as best as I could from the depredations of bandits, or even the “requisition” attempts made by soldiery from either side. The manor was, by then, master-less; my loyalties, however, remained, and so did I. 

This is not to say that those who chose to depart were somehow deserving of reproach. It is simply that a man of my position has to bear a heavier burden of duty than others, and that is as it should be.

I had been hearing troubling rumors of civil strife in the northern province, and though Dragon Bridge is near enough to the provincial capital Solitude and by extension the seat of Imperial military power there, I could not help but worry for her safety and well-being. Her latest missive, however, sets my mind at rest somewhat, for she provides several reassurances germane to my concern for her, namely, that the “civil war” seems to have ended, with Imperial authority properly reasserted. Still, the country must be rife with banditry and brigandage, for every credible source affirms that Skyrim is a rough, wild land, where the norms of civilized living are not as widely upheld as one would like. 

In the lines Michel Lylvieve wrote, I could discern some unmistakable signs of nostalgia and, yes, longing for the days of the past, when we served together on the staff here at Weatherleah. As I read the letter again so that I could be quite certain of the accuracy of my interpretation, I became increasingly sure that she is, in fact, indicating some very distinct hints, very distinct indeed, of her desire to return to employment here in Weatherleah. 

This evidence has obliged me to evaluate my recruitment plans afresh, and it has become clear to me that few candidates for employment could match the exemplary housekeeping record set by Michel Lylvieve. Indeed, her high standards of professionalism are hardly to be found anywhere these days. 

And so it was that I presented my modest suggestion to Sir Doric some days ago, that I should make a trip personally to Dragon Bridge for the professional purpose of recruiting, or rather, re-inviting a former member of the staff at Weatherleah, who could be nothing but the greatest asset when it comes to the running of the manor’s affairs. 

I immediately discerned, however, that I must have inadvertently made an error in the phrasing of my request, for Sir Doric leaned forward with what I believe is referred to colloquially as a “twinkle” in his eye. “Well, well, Sir Stefan,” he said to me. “Still courting at your age, eh? This lady-friend of yours must be quite a woman.”

This of course placed me in a most embarrassing situation, one in which the late Lord Jemane would never have put a man in his employ. I do not mean to imply that Sir Doric, with his rough-hewn wit, intended any harm, but you will appreciate the discomfiture I felt in that moment. 

“I don’t suppose it’s a bad thing to keep the embers stirred and lit, as it were, Stefan, but my word, I don’t know that I should be funding such a dubious assignation. Whatever will the gentry say?” These comments were, of course, in the vein of “banter”, a realm to me as unfamiliar and foreign as any of Oblivion’s pocket realms.

I hastened then to assure him that I had made the necessary calculations, and apart from the fees of hiring a mercenary as a companion for the duration of the trip, I would be able to settle my own expenses out of my personal savings. 

He waved his hand dismissively. “Won’t hear of it! I’m not a pauper yet, Stefan, you may charge all expenses to the household account, and that will be that. Look here, you’re sure this lady-friend of yours – Michel was it – you’re sure she’ll want to come back here all the way from Skyrim and work for me?”

I vouchsafed that Michel Lylvieve had not given an explicit declaration of intention as to this prospect – for how could she, since our urgent staffing issues were surely unknown to her? However, I explained that her communication with me evinced sufficient proof she might be persuaded of the merits thereof. 

As for his continued gibes, I perceived that to hotly deny his insinuations would constitute rising to his bait, thereby elevating the awkwardness of the situation, and so I elected to ignore them altogether. 

“Well then, go on ahead with my blessing, old chap, if your heart’s set on it. Now the fighting’s over in Skyrim as well, I heard, so the roads should be somewhat safer now. I’d go along myself, just to see the sights, but there’s that Miscarcand expedition next week. And don’t worry about it, Stefan, if she turns down our offer – I’m sure we’ll plod along well enough. But it’s good for you to get out of the house a bit, Stefan! See a bit of our Empire, and all that. I bet you’ve not seen much of it at all, have you, in all your years serving here?”

A reply to this remark occurred to me then, something to the effect that while I had not travelled much, over the course of my career I have had the honor and privilege of seeing and guarding the best of the Empire, in a manner of speaking, in the persons of the dignitaries who have graced the halls and rooms of Weatherleah. To have given this reply, however, would have been quite presumptuous, and so I contented myself with polite acknowledgement of the joys to be found in viewing the picturesque countryside. 

“It’s not right, so many people being homebodies,” Sir Doric continued, waxing on this favorite subject of his as was his wont. “People should travel. See the world. All across Tamriel, there’re so many wondrous things to see, you wouldn’t believe they existed unless you saw them for yourself.”

He settled back into his chair. “I’ve never been to Skyrim. Would love to go some day. Perhaps after things here have settled down a bit, hey? I might go visit some of the dragon mounds people talk so much about, or maybe one of the dragon skeletons left around by that one they call the Dragonborn. She’s killed a fair number, so they say, out in the wilderness, just left their bones lying there like monuments. Would be quite the sight. Or perhaps you might even see a real live dragon! Wouldn’t that be something, Stefan? Imagine, if you were to see one before I did!” And he laughed uproariously.

My employer was referring, of course, to the differences between his career and mine. I am a bonded knight, with a hereditary title; apart from my birthplace in Menevia, my ancestral home in High Rock, the only other place I have ever known is Weatherleah, here in County Chorrol in Cyrodiil. Naturally I am proud to say that from the time I was brought here at the tender age of 5, I have served with honor and dignity, first as a page, then a squire, and finally as a knight in my own capacity. Sir Doric, on the other hand, was knighted for valor, deservedly I have no doubt, and has spent much of his life as an itinerant. He appears quite happy to carry on with his dungeon-delving and paid contract work even after his purchase of Weatherleah, rather than settle down to tend his own garden, as it were.

In any event, after enjoying several more minutes of my growing discomfort, Sir Doric was kind enough not only to affirm his approval of my expedition, but also to offer me one of his personal steeds for a travel mount. “Take Lucky Lady,” he told me – that being the name of his dark bay destrier – “that seems quite fitting! Make your trip a little more auspicious, eh?”

It truly was quite generous of him, and I made sure to thank him properly before retiring from the parlor gracefully with my dignity intact.

And so I write this now, on the eve of my trip, in my personal journal. On the morrow I shall meet my hired escort at a coaching inn further down the road, as arranged, and then I shall begin to make my way up the road towards Bruma. It shall be as far as I have ever gone, and I must confess that the prospect is quite pleasant. 

Indeed, and why should I not say it, I do begin to feel a certain delight at the thought of the open road and the new locales I shall visit. Perhaps there may even be a tinge of excitement to my emotions at this time, I daresay.


	2. Bruma - Jerall View Inn

The Jerall View Inn here in Bruma delivers well on the implicit promise in its name; I have been given a room with a view, and as I gaze out of my window I can see the striking snow-capped peaks of this storied mountain range.

It was within those mountains, after all, that the sack of Cloud Ruler Temple occurred. In these latter days, all too many have forgotten the history of our land, or perhaps did not have the opportunity to learn it in the first place. But who among us of the educated classes can forget the shock and horror that accompanied the terrible news on that day of infamy, when the forces of the Aldmeri Dominion attacked and destroyed the last bastion of the Blades, including their priceless archives? 

And of course, who can ever forget that Cloud Ruler Temple was where Martin Septim, the last Dragonborn Emperor and Savior of All Tamriel, found sanctuary during the Oblivion Crisis two centuries ago? Where he was acclaimed as the true heir to the throne? Truly, the destruction of the Temple was a vile act that cries out for justice to be exacted upon the perpetrators.

As I sit here and look out at these mountains, I cannot help but wonder if any members of that illustrious organization survived the massacre. Perhaps they would have gone into hiding in the northern province of Skyrim, where the Dominion holds less sway than here in the heartland.

I have never considered myself a man much given to wanderlust, but after the past week of journeying through the countryside I will say I begin to feel a glimmer of the sentiment that Sir Doric articulates on a regular basis regarding the joys of traveling. Apart from a couple of rather exhilarating encounters with forest trolls – both of which were put paid to by the efforts of myself and my mercenary companion, a pleasingly taciturn Redguard woman named Rochelle the Red – my trip has been pleasantly uneventful. 

It is somewhat disquieting still to see various signs of the military strife that ended more than two decades ago, to ride past the burnt husks of farmhouses and homesteads that have not been revisited or put back to rights. I can only offer my own silent sympathy to those citizens still suffering in the aftermath of the War. If the occasion should arise for me to lend aid, whether of a martial or monetary nature, to anyone in need, I shall be glad to render what help I can. Certainly I am still possessed of a certain amount of vigor and skill at arms, as the recent encounters with the trolls amply demonstrate.

A pleasant reminiscence now commends itself to my attention, as I am assessing my current levels of fighting prowess. I am put in mind now of the tourney that was held on the grounds of Weatherleah, to celebrate the day I received my knighthood from my father, Sir Stefan Stentor the Elder. As I recall, it fell within the same week that Michel Lylvieve first came to the manor, newly employed as a chambermaid. Memories inevitably dim with the passing of seasons and years, but I remember well the pageantry of the day – the eloquent troubadours, the cunning illusionists, the pulchritudinous noble ladies of County Chorrol in attendance. But when I first chanced to meet Michel Lylvieve, I daresay that in my own humble estimation, she outshone those other luminaries on account of her readily discernible virtues.

Michel Lylvieve and I exchanged few words that day, but from her demeanor I could already discern that here was a proper lady-in-waiting indeed, possessed of a rare and admirable sense of decorum and, I might say, many personal charms of her own. I had no doubt in my mind from the beginning that though her beginnings at Weatherleah were humble, she would rise swiftly in the world by dint of talent and application. Eventually, as we all came to see, I was not mistaken in the least.

In the event, I was glad that I acquitted myself honorably enough in the lists that day, and though she was kept busy with her duties I suppose Michel Lylvieve did chance to see a few of my more impressive displays. The late Lord Jemane certainly did, and perhaps it was my creditable performance on that day that earned me an early promotion to Captain of the Guard just a few years later, succeeding my father in that role. With his irreproachable career, he was of course the natural choice for Master-at-Arms, an honorable role of guidance and authority most appropriate for an accomplished instructor of his mien. 

There certainly seems to have been a martial theme to the occurrences of this evening, which have probably inclined my own thoughts in the same direction. When I was sitting in the taproom below a few hours earlier, with my escort Rochelle, I could not help but notice many of the patrons were accoutered in soldierly fashion – they did not have the look of mercenaries, for their armor and weaponry were worn but in good condition, and of a somewhat uniform make. My intuition was correct, as it usually is on such matters, for when the inquisitive innkeeper chanced to initiate a conversation with me, the other patrons joined in as well in what I could term a “lively hubbub”.

“Excuse me, but… you’re a knight, aren’t you? One of those proper old-style ones, hailing from High Rock?”

I gave her a friendly smile and said, “Yes, good lady, you are quite perceptive. I have indeed the honor to be such, and I am indeed a Breton hailing from High Rock.”

My quiet reply seemed to have quite an effect on those within earshot, for they all paused in their own conversations and turned to me. “Well, that’s quite something! A knight from High Rock! Hail and well met!” This was said to me by a grizzled soldier clad in Imperial studded leathers.

“Strength and honor to you, good sir Knight!” Several more remarks of this nature were uttered as mugs were lifted in my direction, and I could do naught but graciously lift my own tankard in acknowledgement. 

“I tell you, it’s a good sign, a good omen, eh, Legate?” The grizzled warrior, an old Orc, directed this comment at his table partner. This was a formidable specimen indeed, a well-muscled Nord woman of mature years, stern of countenance and solemn of demeanor. Indeed, she had an almost palpable air of effortless authority about her, the sort that commanded deference and respect without having to impose itself outright. In my long years of experience I have only known several individuals, my father among them, who have possessed this kind of presence, and I was unsurprised to hear her addressed as an Imperial Legate, a rank I felt was commensurate with her manifest dignity.

“A good omen. When the knights of High Rock finally come out of their fancy castles and towers, and join us on the battlefields, then those high and mighty Thalmor will see the true power of the Empire!”

“Aye! We’ll show those damn elves what for! Err, no offence, Legate Fasendil.” This was said by another soldier, a shaggy giant of a Nord man.

“None taken, Hrollod, my friend. I concur with your sentiment, myself.” This one was an Altmer himself, but clad also in Imperial armor, sitting across the room. Obviously not every Altmer owed allegiance to the Aldmeri Dominion, and certainly it should come as no surprise to anyone that Altmer may serve with distinction in the Imperial Legion. 

While I was musing on the improbable presence of not one, but two Legates of the Imperial Legion being present, the publican spoke to me most respectfully. “Beg your pardon, sir Knight, for these humble accommodations. Must be something quite different from what you’re used to in High Rock, isn’t it? We hear all the stories of the, what do you call them, boudoirs draped with silks and whatnot?”

“That’s ladies’ bedrooms you’re thinking of, Nerisa,” another soldier called out. “Our honorable knight here wouldn’t have had much truck with that! Or would you, sir Knight? I bet you’ve seen the inside of quite a few of them boo-dwahs in your time, eh?” This was followed by boisterous laughter all around.

I smiled and allowed that it was true I had seen the interior of many a bedchamber meant to be occupied by various nobles of the female persuasion, although my dealings with all of them had always been of a most honorable nature. This was very much the truth, of course, since my chief thought with regard to those women was to ensure their safety while they were guests at Weatherleah. My response was accepted, though with a good deal of chuckling and winking.

“We’re mighty glad to see you here with us, Sir, here in Cyrodiil I mean,” the Orc said loudly, to a murmur of general agreement. “I don’t mind telling you, many of the lads feel we’ve been waiting long enough. No offence meant to you lot, of course, but we’re the ones taken the brunt of the fighting so far, we here in the heartland. And up north, too, just had ourselves one of the ugliest and messiest wars I’ve ever seen. And that’s coming from me,” he added reflectively, “and I know damn well I’m no pretty sight.”

“Damn right, Legate,” the soldiers laughed. So I was given to understand, then, that I was in the taproom with three Legates of the Legion – a High Elf, a Nord woman, and an Orc.

“In any case,” I said to the innkeeper, “I find your accommodations most adequate, and nothing lacking. You have no cause to beg my pardon, good lady, for your hospitality does your establishment much credit.”

This remark of mine earned a round of murmured approval. “There’s that famous High Rock courtesy we’ve all heard about. That’s proper knighthood for you.”

“Not like our so-called knights and nobles here in Cyrodiil.” This was said by a soldier sitting in the corner, a bearded dour-faced man who spat on the floor in a show of disgust. “Dishonorable traitors the lot of them.”

“Now, now, Regulus,” the female Legate spoke at last, quietly, but her voice seemed to carry, and the unruly soldier in question straightened up in his seat.

“I’m sorry, Legate. It’s just…”

“At ease, soldier. I understand what you’re feeling. We all do. But we’re in polite company tonight. Let’s not speak ill of our own nobility in front of the good sir Knight here.”

“As you say, Legate Rikke. It’s just…” The soldier identified as Regulus chewed his lip ferociously. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said to me then, respectfully. “I suppose you and your peers in High Rock wouldn’t understand some of the atrocious things we’ve seen our high-and-mighty aristocrats do, for the last three decades. Some of it, quite frankly, amounts to outright treason, and I don’t care who knows I say so. I, Regulus Turrianus of the Seventh Legion, stand by what I say, which is more than some of these hypocrites can say for themselves. Why, when I think back to that conference… where was it again…”

“Weatherleah,” the Altmer Legate Fasendil supplied. “You are thinking of the conference at Weatherleah, just a year or two before the full assault upon the Imperial City commenced.”

“That’d be the one,” Regulus nodded. “Never mind the White-Gold Concordat, that damned conference was when the honor of the Empire was already torn into shreds and cast down into the mud, and stepped upon by those fancy nobles’ fancy shoes and fancy perfumed feet. Pah!”

“Soldier, you forget yourself,” the Orc Legate growled then. “You’re deep in your cups. Go sleep it off.”

“It’s alright, Legate Burzag,” Legate Rikke said quietly. “Sometimes, men need to speak their minds, especially upon matters of honor.”

She turned to me then. “I suppose you wouldn’t know of the events Regulus here alludes to. We’ve not been introduced. I am Legate Rikke, adjutant to General Tullius, returning from Skyrim on routine rotation. Your name, sir Knight?”

“I have the honor to be Sir Stefan Stentor,” I replied, making a little bow.

“Ah, and you serve at the court of…”

“I was born in Menevia, but I currently am in the service of my fellow knight Sir Doric of Alcaire.”

“Alcaire!” This exclamation came in a booming voice from the throat of the hulking Nord soldier, who thumped his meaty fist on the table in approval. “Good place, that! It was where Tiber Septim himself learned him some sword moves, he did! The Divines smile upon our meeting this evening, sir Knight!” He raised his tankard in salute. “A humble toast from me, Legate Hrollod, late of the Ninth, out of Eastmarch Hold. To Alcaire!”

I could only raise my own cup in response and accept the toast. So it came to pass that I was in the taproom of the Jerall View Inn with at least four Imperial Legates, and for all I knew the ill-tempered Regulus Turrianus was some high-ranking officer himself, though the others seemed to address him as one of the rank and file.

“An honor, Sir Stefan,” Legate Rikke said to me. “As my fellow soldiers have been saying, it’s heartening to see that some of you at least are coming out of High Rock to aid the Empire in these dark times. I hope you will forgive Tribune Regulus for his frank speech. We are but simple soldiers. He speaks uncivilly, it is true, but then… what happened at the conference he mentioned is enough to frustrate any citizen of the Empire. It was at Weatherleah, a noble estate in the County of Chorrol, to the west and south of here. Some of the most prominent nobles from all over the Empire gathered there during the Great War, to meet with some of the Aldmeri Dominion’s highest-ranking generals. Those Dominion leaders spoke soothing lies, intending to sap the fighting spirit of Cyrodiil’s political leaders, and hinder the efforts of its military ones.”

“Honorless curs,” Tribune Regulus muttered.

There was no reproach from his fellow soldiers this time, only a pensive silence. I cleared my throat awkwardly, and said, “I am only a simple soldier, in truth, much like your good selves, but I will say this. In times of war, those who seek peace are pursuing a noble goal, honorable in itself. Yet, one may clearly see that when honor itself needs to be defended, it is the mark of the honorable that they shy not away from the fight.”

My words were met again with a murmur of approval, and even Regulus seemed to think my brief speech had passed muster by his lights. 

“The Dragonborn must’ve said something quite similar to you, eh, Legate Rikke?” Legate Hrollod said then. “When you made that pilgrimage?”

All eyes were turned to her then, mine included. The Legate simply smiled, and shook her head. “Not as such. I don’t mean that I disagree with you, Sir Stefan. In fact, I don’t see why the Dovahkiin herself would take issue with what you say. As for what she told me…”

“Tell us again,” her fellow Nord Legate urged her, with a strange look in his eyes, almost of reverence. “Tell us what she said when she… spoke to you,” he said, with a rather peculiar emphasis on the word “spoke”.

Legate Rikke closed her eyes, as if calling to mind something from out of memory. Then she opened them and said, “You can only be honorable when you cease to think of honor as a goal and a fulfillment. Think no longer upon honor and how best to gain or attain it. Seek not the depths of honor with measuring pole or sounding line. Weigh it not with scales. The Hall of Shor is not entered with an accounting ledger in hand.”

“She should know, she’s been there,” Hrollod commented, laughing softly. Some of the soldiers chuckled in agreement. I went on listening, with some perplexity.

“Say not, _I have found the path of honor_ , but rather say, _I have found an honorable path_ ,” Legate Rikke continued her recitation, for that was what I realized it was. “Say not, _my path is that of honor_ , but rather say, _I have found honor while walking this path_. For honor walks all paths. Honor walks not upon a line, nor does it grow like a reed. It unfolds itself, like a bloom with infinite petals, and is itself a boundless immeasurable sea.”

There was a kind of collective sigh in the room, after Rikke’s ringing voice fell silent. Then Regulus muttered, “She should be our Empress. A Dragonborn Empress again, just as Akatosh intended from the beginning. Why isn’t she our Empress?”

Legate Burzag stood up then with a noisy clatter of his chair. “Alright, Regulus, that’s it for you for tonight,” he said, not unkindly, as he walked over and clapped a hand on the Tribune’s shoulder. “Come on, now, let’s get you back to your room. You’ll be nursing a sore head in the morning. Good evening to you, Sir Stefan,” he said, nodding at me. With that, the two of them departed the taproom.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” I said, “but I am unclear as to the provenance of those words you have just conveyed to our hearing. They are extremely edificatory, and I cannot help but wonder what this personage is that some of you have mentioned, this…”

“The Dragonborn. Or Dovahkiin, in the ancient tongue of the Dragons,” Legate Rikke explained.

“And the Nords! Don’t forget, Legate, our proud ancestors used that language too!” Hrollod boomed.

“Yes, when in thrall to their cruel Dragon overlords,” Rikke retorted wryly. “The Dragonborn… you have heard of her, I hope? I am not sure how far the news travels out of Skyrim these days. It’s been a long few years for me. For all of us.”

“We have heard of this figure,” I affirmed, “but I am unsure as to the ramifications of her moniker, and her individual significance.”

“I’ll try to be brief, then. I’m no learned skald or Moth Priest from the Imperial City, but I’ll tell you what I know. She is a mortal, like us, but born with the soul of a dragon. This means she can kill dragons permanently, and absorb their souls. I’m not sure how to describe it to someone who’s never seen it. I’m not sure it even can be described properly, so I’m not going to try. In any case, she not only aided us in ending the civil war in Skyrim, she also defeated Alduin, the World-Eater, the one they call the Firstborn of Akatosh. The most powerful of the ancient dragon overlords who ruled over us in legendary times.”

“She chased that wyrm all the way to Sovngarde to do it!” Hrollod interjected. “She found a way to go there, went over the Whalebone Bridge… to the Hall of Shor… and came back,” he finished, with his voice uncharacteristically hushed.

“She has done that, yes, and much more besides. Much more than we know of, for sure. She now spends most of her time at the summit of the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Skyrim,” Rikke continued. “Although, she rides dragons, so… she’s been seen all over Skyrim. Maybe she even travels elsewhere in Tamriel. I wouldn’t know. But I met her. We climbed up the 7,000 Steps, those of us who wished to hear her words. We asked her our questions. She gave us answers.” Rikke smiled. “More than we knew we needed.”

Meanwhile, the Altmer Legate Fasendil was frowning as if in thought. “Stentor… Stentor…” he muttered. “Sir Stefan, if I may make so bold, might I inquire – are you any relation to a certain Sybille Stentor, who resides in Solitude?” he asked me.

“Ah. I’m afraid, Legate, that I am unable to adequately answer your question. Stentor is a fairly common family name in certain parts of High Rock, and while it is not unlikely that we are linked by ties of… blood… I am unable to tell you conclusively if we are in fact family,” I said.

“I see,” he said, nodding. “My apologies for my temerity.”

“Not at all, Legate. I am happy to be of service in any way.”

“Beg pardon, Sir Stefan,” Hrollod said now, frowning. “I’ve got a question of my own. Is it true what they say, that in High Rock, some of the Breton knights like yourself are unwilling to take up arms against the Thalmor aggressors because they feel some kind of kinship with the Altmer? Due to, you know, some Direnni in their bloodlines, or something like that?”

Hrollod was of course referring to the time, long Eras past, when the elven Direnni Hegemony held sway in High Rock, and to the fact that we Bretons, alone out of all the races in Tamriel, may call ourselves a mix of races – to wit, a combination of Man and Mer has somehow occurred in our blood. As I understand it, though I am not an expert in matters of phylogeny, this has not occurred for any other race.

“It is… difficult for me to say,” I replied at last. “I am not in a position to speak for my fellow knights of High Rock. I am given to understand that a fair number of them aided our friends in Hammerfell during the War, though regrettably it is true that few of them have opted, as I have, to devote their energies to the service of Cyrodiil itself. I will say that I personally have never given undue weight to the question of my part-elven heritage, and that today, in these troubled times, it seems the clear and honorable duty of every Imperial citizen to resist Thalmor tyranny and oppose the Aldmeri Dominion’s acts of aggression in every sense, and every way.”

“Hear, hear!”

The evening drew to a close on a distinct note of amicability, and I confess myself quite pleased to have spent time with these honorable members of the military. The kinship of those in the martial professions is, after all, one that transcends even lines of national enmity, at times. There is a very definite sense of camaraderie one feels when one encounters another who has served in a soldier’s capacity, be he a humble city guardsman or a vaunted Legate of the Legion.

Now that I have time to reflect, it seems clear to me that I steered the best course possible when navigating the shoals of conversation this evening. Certainly anyone could see that I had not begun with the intention to deceive; on the contrary, I can confidently say that I did not speak a single word of falsehood in the taproom to those fine soldiers. Upon further reflection, it seems clear that I had managed inadvertently to present a slightly misleading, though in no way erroneous, impression of myself, and in the rough-and-ready way typical of soldiers they had proceeded too quickly with that misinterpretation of my identity and status.

Thereafter, what was there to do if one was to avoid causing embarrassment, except to converse with them as tactfully as possible? Indeed, things had all too quickly progressed to a stage where it would have caused a considerable amount of chagrin, not only to myself but to all parties involved, if I had ventured to set the record straight, as it were, and to clarify my own identity and career. Indeed, and why should I not say it, I feel I successfully averted a social disruption of the most unpleasant kind, and managed to keep my honor intact by not perjuring myself.

In particular, when it came to the matter of Weatherleah, I discerned immediately that this was a sensitive matter with subtle nuances that an inebriated military man could hardly have been expected to give due consideration in his condition. Indeed, even in the highest circles which I have been privileged to have been part of, albeit peripherally, there are those who labor under various misapprehensions as to the nature of Lord Jemane’s intentions, or to the true dimensions of the outcomes of that conference in the year 173. It would certainly have been tremendously embarrassing to the troubled Tribune if I had contradicted his opinions just then about the conference at Weatherleah. Certainly there was no reasonable purpose to doing so, and therefore I did not.

To the Legate Fasendil, moreover, I was certainly as forthcoming as I could be under the circumstances. Great-great-great-great-great-grandaunt Sybille has been something of a black sheep in the family for all these many generations. I personally bear her no ill-will, of course, never having met her, but I daresay there is no one who is obliged to say that somewhere in their ancestry there is a distinctly sanguinary branch of the family tree, shall we say. Who is there who will freely admit that an ancient distant relative – rendered distant not so much by genealogy as by time – is a vampire, and still alive and at large, and more, serving in a high position in a royal court? I was quite truthful with my response to the good Legate, in every word I said, and I do not believe my honor besmirched by this or any other utterance of mine tonight.


	3. Helgen Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casta Scribonia is an NPC from Oblivion. So are Emfrid and Captain Bittneld the Curse-Bringer. There is a little-known unmarked sidequest involving the three of them, documented on the UESP website.

The winding mountain trail up from the Jerall foothills to Helgen Keep, chief gateway to Skyrim, proved a most arduous and torturous path to traverse. My companion and I had to stop and make camp twice along the way, lest we drive our horses to exhaustion. I am very much cognizant of Sir Doric’s generosity in lending me his second-best destrier, and it behooves me, as it were, to take every possible care when it comes to Lucky Lady.

The keep itself is in a rather parlous state, but repairs are underway and the fortifications seem adequate at least for a way station, in which capacity Helgen Keep is serving for the time being. I am told that this is where great events have happened, but now that I am here, I can hardly credit those tales of the first dragon attack, of the rebel leader Ulfric Stormcloak nearly meeting his end on the executioner’s block, of this Dragonborn woman herself being present here at the time, and so on. Tales grow in the telling, sometimes all out of shape, and it is hard to sift truth from the exaggerations of travelers given to flights of fancy.

While Rochelle the Red is away, having sought out unerringly the military tavern within the keep’s grounds, I find I have time to pen down some more of my thoughts concerning the interactions that took place in the Jerall View Inn. While I have satisfied myself that I behaved as honorably as I could have under the circumstances, I am struck still by the words Legate Rikke spoke, which supposedly were said to her by this “Dovahkiin”.

I find that I have never before thought of honor as a kind of sea, as those words seem to imply. Rather, it seems to me that honor is a strait and narrow gate, and few are those who can successfully walk the perilous path leading to that portal, without succumbing to the myriad pitfalls along the way. I am unsure what is meant by the notion that “honor walks not upon a line”, or that it “unfolds itself”. 

It is not that I wish to cast doubt or aspersions, of course, on sayings that are manifestly held in high regard by so many of unimpeachable character who have heard them. It is simply that I am as yet unable to fathom some of the meanings behind these pronouncements upon a subject that has always been a keen interest of mine. Indeed, and why should I not say it, I venture to suggest that my long ruminations upon the subject of honor have caused it to become a cornerstone of my life.

I am put in mind of yet another memorable encounter I had with Michel Lylvieve. This was some years after we had both settled into our respective roles, myself as Captain of the Guard, and Michel as the new matron. Her rise, as I have previously indicated, was swift and to my mind fully justified by her meritorious contributions to the manor.

It was my habit in those days, one will understand, to cultivate both mind and body, such that I could give better service to whichever lord owned my loyalty. Being possessed of a desire to be as helpful as possible to the distinguished Roland Jemane III, I sought various ways to broaden my range of skills. It came to me one day, as I was dealing out a dose of discipline to some wayward members of the estate guard, that I was in fact repeating several oft-used phrases in quick succession while I was delivering my reprimand.

My tone and manner, of course, were effective enough that I believe I successfully expressed my full meaning to them, and they were certainly impressed enough with my message that thereafter, they were never again caught by me for the same offense. However, I pondered this niggling detail of my lamentably limited vocabulary, and resolved within the week to take active steps towards increasing the wealth of my word hoard, so to speak.

So it was that one rainy afternoon, Michel Lylvieve happened to catch sight of me in an unaccustomed location – for, on account of the sudden rainfall during my rounds, I had been obliged to take shelter under the eaves of the hothouse. Naturally, wishing to make the best possible use of my time, I extracted my current book from about my person – I had developed the practical habit of always carrying a book around, in case of just such a situation – and commenced reading.

All of a sudden, I became aware of Michel Lylvieve’s close proximity to me, for I had failed to detect her approach on account of being engrossed in the book I was reading, and also on account of the curtain of rain serving as a form of concealment for anyone coming to the hothouse.

“What’s that you’re reading there, Stefan?” she inquired.

She and I had grown quite familiar, and I was not in the habit of insisting that she address me either by my full name, or my title. She was not one of the guardsmen or guardswomen, to be sure, who fell directly under my authority; nor was she a lesser under-servant, who all did treat me with a certain deference, as was only right and proper given our relative social stations. I had come to respect Michel greatly for her professional skill and admirable qualities, and indeed, I saw no harm in extending to her a certain cautious kind of amiable informality, extending perhaps just a smidgen beyond the bounds of ordinary friendship.

On this occasion, however, I found myself vaguely irritated at the suddenness of this intrusion upon my cherished privacy. “Just a book, Michel,” I said, endeavoring to slip it back into my satchel.

“Our Captain of the Guard, a knight as erudite as he is puissant!” she laughed, in that manner of hers I had come to regard as quite appealing, in its open, honest way. “What scandalous material could he be reading, hiding out here like this, away from honest eyes?”

“I am not ‘hiding out’, Michel, as you put it. I am merely taking shelter from the sudden shower,” I said, quite reasonably. “I will thank you to leave me to my private indulgences.”

I saw immediately that I had used precisely the wrong word for the situation, for her dark eyes glittered with a new intensity. “Indulgences! My, my, Stefan, now I simply must see that book. Can it be, that our pure-hearted paragon of a Guard Captain conceals some naughty vice under that pristine façade? Come now, Stefan, share and share alike. Let’s be soiled together. Give that here.”

“Michel… Michel Lylvieve, I must protest… this is… highly irregular.”

I had pressed myself up against the wall by then, and I was clutching the book to my chest as tightly as I could, in an effort to prevent her from prizing it from my grasp.

She was inexorable, however, despite my best efforts. “Come now,” she said, softly, for she had fetched up very close against me in the process of attempting to purloin my book, and thus had no need to speak in a louder voice. “Come now, Stefan. Show me. I just want to know what you like, that’s all. Come now. There. There, let go, let go now, Stefan. Show me.”

I may have shut my eyes momentarily as she finally took the book from my reluctant hands. “Why,” I heard her say, with a distinct note of disappointment in her voice, “this is just a novel. A romance. And not one of the more scandalous ones.”

She read the title and author aloud. “ _Of Curses and Blessings: The Love of Emfrid and Bittneld_ , by Casta Scribonia,” she said. “This really is a rather old novel, as they go. Dating back to the last years of the Third Era, if I’m not wrong. Yes, yes, of course it is from that time, I should’ve known, I’ve read _Woman Gone Wild_ , for Divines’ sakes, I should’ve recognized Casta Scribonia’s name right off. Why, I think I’ve heard of this one,” she continued blithely, quite oblivious to my growing discomfiture. “This was supposedly based on a true story that she personally witnessed, if you can believe her. Emfrid was a publican in Chorrol City, a tavernkeeper, and Bittneld the Curse-Bringer was a captain of the guard up at the castle, and the story tells of how this unlikely pairing came to be…”

Her voice trailed off then, and I found myself gazing into those dark, limpid eyes of hers, with depths in them that seemed to stretch into eternity. There was some wrinkling at the corners of her mouth that seemed to indicate an incipient smile.

“My lady,” I managed to find my voice at last, “I read in order to refine and hone my command of language, much as one uses a whetstone to sharpen a sword. I read a great variety of books, including histories, and treatises of all kinds, and I include romance novels such as this one in my selection, primarily because the various unusual and evocative phrases are of interest from a linguistic perspective. You will appreciate that I am not a man given to frivolous flights of fancy, that I take my duties very seriously, and that my duty of care extends to you… most especially to you… most especially when it concerns matters that may impugn your honor. With that in mind, my lady, I will ask you to please return me that book which is mine, and to make no mention of my personal hobbies to any other members of staff. Or of this encounter. If you please. My lady.”

Slowly she began to shake her head, as if in wonder.

“Sir Stefan,” she said, “what can you possibly mean by that? What matters are those, that could ‘impugn my honor’, as you say? Whatever are you talking about?”

“I have always, as a rule,” I said as evenly as I could manage under the circumstances, “discouraged members of the staff from forming undue attachments to one another. Such personal entanglements unfortunately carry within them the inherent danger of becoming a hindrance to the honorable performance of one’s duties. Indeed, just last week I found myself in the unhappy position of having to chastise two members of the guard for just such a breach of the proper code of conduct. Guardswomen Lyra and Gerda were found having… having intimate and energetic relations behind the stables, and though they were off-duty at the time, it is surely necessary for the staff here at Weatherleah to be consistently above reproach in the public eye. Consequently, if… if I were to take… liberties with you...”

Michel Lylvieve’s mouth was opened, but now she shut it firmly. “First of all, that was quite a beastly thing you did, to Lyra and Gerda,” she said, clearly in a state of high dudgeon. “The entire estate knows about them. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if his lordship himself knew, and practically everyone is happy for them, whether it’s Mara or Dibella they’re primarily worshipping in their own time. They’ve never been derelict in their duties, at least not that I’m aware of, and there was simply no call to go berating them like that.”

“It is quite true, as you say, that their performance as guards has been quite satisfactory, but nevertheless…”

She interrupted me. “And to imply that I am… to say that any… any liberties you take… you take! Would impugn _my_ honor, as if I had no choice in the matter, as if I could not make a decision for my own part, in my own life! How’s this, Stefan, for liberties, you pig-headed oaf!”

And so saying, she took hold very firmly of the back of my head with one hand. I find that there is no delicate way I can describe what happened next. I can only say that it was of a very ferocious nature, and certainly possessed of a high degree of passion, and that I was put very much in mind of the storm all about us, the energy of which seemed comparable to the energy Michel Lylvieve was exerting in that moment as she furiously pressed her lips to my own.

When she was done, however, she turned and walked away rapidly, into the rain, leaving me in a decidedly discombobulated state. When I had composed myself sufficiently, I found that I could not regain the proper frame of mind to continue my reading endeavor, and so I was obliged to stand there quite unproductively, waiting for the rain to stop, before I could go about my rounds as before.

In the succeeding weeks, she and I made no overt mention of what had transpired under the eaves. Our relations, though somewhat cooler than before, eventually regained a warm cordiality that I found most agreeable. We returned to our longstanding habit of spending the late evenings together, conversing upon diverse topics while sipping our beverages of choice. It would seem that she had given my heartfelt words some thought, and seen the sense in what I was saying. 

Surely she was perspicacious enough to perceive that I was only behaving in the honorable manner expected of a man of my station, that to have done otherwise and blithely allowed reckless impulses free rein would have done considerable damage to our honor, and the honor of Weatherleah. I am confident that Michel Lylvieve was of such high character that she could not but have understood this, though we never needed to speak of it.

I did make sure to procure two matching Amulets of Mara, and contrive some means of discreetly ensuring that Guardswoman Lyra and Guardswoman Gerda received them as gifts from me. It was not a gesture of apology, of course, for I had not in fact done wrong; I did wish them to be aware that I was not in principle opposed to their love, as long as it was honorable in nature, only that I was obliged to preserve Weatherleah’s reputation by meting out discipline for dishonorable conduct.

As I reflect upon this now, I cannot help but feel a glow of satisfaction. Indeed, I may venture as far as to say that I have some small insight of my own to contribute to any discourse on the topic of honor, though I make no claim to being any great authority on the subject.


	4. Half-Moon Mill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to events described in one of my other fanfics, Runil's List, which can be found here on AO3.

We have, over the past several days, traversed the breadth of Falkreath Hold, so our kind hostess tells us, and after we round the western shore of Lake Ilinalta, which incidentally is quite beautiful by the combined light of Masser and Secunda, we shall be at the crossroads where we may turn west to the Reach or north into Whiterun Hold. North, of course, is the direction we shall be taking, and then west to the village of Rorikstead. From there, it shall be the last leg of my trip, and before too long I shall be at Dragon Bridge, where I will see Michel Lylvieve again.

Falkreath Hold has certainly lived up to its gloomy reputation. For some reason, the sky here is almost constantly overcast, and rare indeed are the moments when the sun shines clearly from a clear sky in this place. The main town of Falkreath itself was little better, as we found a few days ago. The general mood of the people here seems extremely subdued, even to a man like myself who favors tranquility over turbulence. 

My traveling companion Rochelle made some inquiries at the local tavern, an establishment with the slightly inauspicious name of “Dead Man’s Drink”, and told me there was some upheaval lately that has clearly upset the majority of the populace. It transpires that the local priest of Arkay, the keeper of their cemetery – and it certainly proves to be the largest graveyard I have ever seen with my own eyes, though I am unable at this time to ascertain if it is indeed the largest in all Skyrim, as has been claimed – was murdered recently, by a townsman with rebel sympathies. A sad time indeed for the people of this dreary, forlorn province.

Skyrim is certainly different from Cyrodiil in one key respect: inns are few and far in between, and coaching inns are almost unheard of. It seems to be expected of travelers that they equip themselves for long journeys that necessitate spending the nights in the wild, their inventories replete with camping gear and tools for foraging. I confess to feeling some annoyance with myself for failing to foresee this contingency, but fortunately we were able to purchase supplies from the general store in Falkreath. 

This expense, however, eats considerably into my available traveling funds, and I find myself wondering if Rochelle the Red’s propensity for reticence may not have proved to be a disadvantage, after all. Surely she, a native of Skyrim as she claimed, would be familiar with the demands imposed by the rigors of travel in this land, and a considerate hireling would have thought to point them out at an earlier juncture, ideally at the outset.

We have had a happy stroke of luck, however, for which I am quite appreciative. Following the road took us eventually to the southern banks of the aforementioned Lake Ilinalta, as the dusk began to descend upon us. Just as it seemed we would have to make camp by the lakeside, Rochelle’s keen eyes spotted a dwelling up ahead on the road. It turned out to be a lumber mill, and the proprietor – our gracious hostess – appears to be a woman of a most generous disposition.

Clearly the loneliness of a solitary existence in the wilderness of Skyrim cannot be overstated, for Hert, as she is named, seemed positively exuberant at the prospect of having guests, and would hear nothing of offers of remuneration for her hospitality. So it is now that we are staying with her for the night at no cost, thanks to her largesse. 

If Hert is a typical specimen of Nords in Skyrim, then I will confess myself astounded at the physical endowments of this proud race, which appear to exceed even those of their stalwart southern counterparts. Nords in Cyrodiil are well-known and well-regarded for their qualities of stature and strength, but Hert, while tall, possesses what I may describe as a slim, even willowy, physique. Yet, our first sight of her at work sufficed to dispel any notion that she lacked the physical capacity for her chosen vocation. 

While we watched from a distance, she took hold of a sizeable log – either a fir or a pine, certainly a species of conifer – and heaved it up onto one shoulder, with only the barest hint of exertion. She then proceeded to carry it up onto the sawmill structure and load it into the cutting bay, giving every impression of minimal effort. 

As a knight, I pride myself on my adherence to a regimen of regular physical exercise, which I have endeavored to keep up even at my somewhat advanced age. I tell the truth when I say it would have taken at least three of me, or perhaps of Rochelle who is a reasonably strong Redguard woman after all, to maneuver one of those logs in the manner we witnessed. 

I can only attribute Hert’s remarkable robustness to fresh air, frequent exercise and a simple but fortifying diet. We dined this evening on an appetizing venison stew, but our hostess supped also on a flank steak so rare as to be still bloody. In fact, one could have been forgiven for thinking that the piece of meat in question had just been sliced off the carcass of the elk to which it had belonged. 

Hert was all agog for the news of the wider world we brought, as might be expected of a woman living by herself at a sawmill. Rochelle seemed to shed her customary restraint; in fact, I will go so far as to say that during the dinner conversation she seemed positively ebullient. At some point, Rochelle began boasting of her own exploits in Skyrim, and to hear her tell it, she had been the most accomplished of bandit queens.

“Sneaked in and out of Heljarchen Hall itself more times than I can count,” she said with a hearty laugh, while Hert gasped appreciatively. “Never mind all them watch towers and palisades and Shield Maidens about the place, ain’t none of them a match for Rochelle the Red! Stole away with the Dragonborn’s wife half a dozen times!”

“Oh my, that’s spectacular! How very skilled you must be, to have tweaked her nose so!” Hert gushed, in a rather simpering manner.

“Well… she did come after me each time, and we had ourselves a right mighty slugfest in front of the wife I stole. She beat me bloody, all six times,” Rochelle admitted. “The last time was the last, I decided, and I promised them both I’d leave them be for good and all. Didn’t feel like Skyrim was safe for me afterwards, so I went south. Now I’m back, and I’m thinking… maybe seventh time’s the charm, eh?”

“Ah, I had not known the Dragonborn was a married woman,” I remarked with a small chuckle. “Do you mean to say, Rochelle, that all this time I have been traveling with a notorious kidnapper?”

I had intended that as a jest, for I had indeed taken Rochelle’s bragging as just that – empty bloviating, a performance put on for the benefit of our hostess. I am hardly oblivious to the nuances of interactions between individuals amorously attracted to each other, and it seemed clear to me that Rochelle’s self-aggrandizing tall stories simply constituted a crude form of courtship.

But to my surprise, Rochelle seemed to take my light-hearted query seriously. “Aye, and if you’ve got a problem with that, you can bugger off on your own,” she growled. “You came into the Gray Mare saying you wanted someone who knew Skyrim well, and that was me, right enough. Don’t you worry none, anyway. I’ve gone on the straight and narrow now. Was the Dragonborn, after all,” she mumbled, “pounded it into me. Half a dozen times. Well,” she snapped, sounding defiant all over again, “ain’t many as can say they went toe-to-toe, naked, with the Dragonborn six times and lived to tell the tale!”

“Indeed not,” Hert cooed, running a finger up and down Rochelle’s upper arm. “Oh, what a struggle she must have had, subduing a warrior like you! A true… red-blooded… warrior of a woman.”

Before the conversation could turn in a direction that would oblige me to leave the table hurriedly in discreet fashion, I gave a small laugh, and said, “Well, Stendarr’s mercy be with me, then, for I’m sure an accomplished blackguard like yourself has none to spare!”

It is clear to me that I have yet to refine the art of banter, but surely the principles of the training yard apply as much to any other area of life: one gets good at a skill with practice. I had intended “blackguard” as a sort of pun; Rochelle was a particularly dark-skinned Redguard, and given the fact of her criminal past I thought I had made a creditable attempt at witty humor.

Neither woman responded to my risible comment, however. Instead, Hert seemed displeased as she said, “Oh my, I will thank you, Sir, not to mention Stendarr to me! I don’t mind if people go on about their silly little devotions, but out of all the Divines, I really have to say Stendarr is my least favorite! Oh my!”

I coughed politely to cover up my astonishment. “I apologize if I have caused any offense. It is quite unintended, I assure you. I shall refrain from any mention of deities under your roof, good lady.”

She seemed mollified by this, and graciously offered an apology of her own. “I’m the one who should be sorry, really. It’s simply that… oh, I could go on about all those damn Vigilants, harassing travelers and crofters and simple folk all over Skyrim!”

“They still doing that?” Rochelle grunted. “Making bloody nuisances of themselves, they are.”

“They’re a gang of thugs,” Hert said heatedly. “Absolute thugs. Merciless hypocritical killers. Oh, I do so despise them!”

I found these remarks quite extraordinary, but unwilling to cause offense to our magnaminous hostess, I refrained from contradicting her opinions outright, and contented myself with some appropriately neutral response. Militant orders such as the Vigilants of Stendarr may be reckoned well-intentioned enough, if a little lacking in the capacity for measured judgment or for making fine distinctions between, say, a peaceable worshipper of Azura, the Mistress of Dusk and Dawn, and a murderous cultist of Molag Bal, the Prince of Rape and Lord of Domination. 

As a knight, I took vows to uphold various ideals and virtues, one of which is naturally Stendarr’s mercy, involving such principles as forbearance for wrongdoers and compassion for the weak. The Vigilants are, of course, known across Tamriel as propounding a rather zealous and, one might say, unforgiving creed. This may seem rather at odds with the tenets of their professed worship of the God of Mercy to the untaught layperson, but I for one find myself much in sympathy with their intended ends, whatever reservations I may hold about their means.

“But I will tell you, though, someone who truly deserves mercy. Or deserved, I should say. Oh my,” Hert sighed. A wistful mood had come over her. “You both passed through Falkreath proper, didn’t you? Did you hear about the sad news?”

“Aye, some priest got murdered. What of it?” Rochelle grunted.

I offered a more tactful response. “We did hear somewhat of the troubling incident, yes. It sounds quite regrettable indeed.”

“Oh, yes. Very much so. He was always kind to me,” Hert said sadly. “His name was Runil. He was a priest of Arkay. Such a gentle, considerate soul.”

“What could have motivated his murderer?” I wondered aloud.

Hert proceeded to explain. Apparently Runil had in fact been a member of the Thalmor, a battlemage who had presumably committed his share of war atrocities as a soldier of the Dominion. Unlike his kin, however, he seemed to have been overcome with guilt and remorse for his actions at some point. He may well be the only one to have experienced this to date, for I have not heard of any Thalmor agent or soldier recanting their loyalty to the Dominion, in all these long years. Then again, the Aldmeri Dominion would hardly bruit the news of such occurrences about. Perhaps any Altmer we meet today could be concealing a dark and troubled past of this nature, but of course, it hardly seems healthy to harbor such undue suspicions of anyone we meet.

In any event, this Runil seemed to have begun a new life in Falkreath after the War, and according to Hert, he had also saved hundreds, if not thousands, of Imperial citizens from the decades of oppressive Thalmor practices throughout Cyrodiil. We in Weatherleah were thankfully spared, for the most part, from the actions of those Inquisitor squads, but all of us have heard the same disturbing accounts of law-abiding citizens being dragged from their homes in the middle of the night and spirited away, never to be seen again, on suspicion of violating some part of the White-Gold Concordat or another. A terrifying thought, to be sure.

“If this Runil truly managed to use his influence and connections to rescue that many people from the Thalmor, then his memory is certainly to be honored,” I remarked gravely.

“He did. I’m one of the ones he saved.”

“Indeed? Then you were most fortunate, and Runil must have been a truly remarkable person. This is surely a great loss,” I said, offering my sympathies.

“It was Bolund who did the foul deed. Bolund, who used to work at the sawmill in Falkreath. I suppose you could say he was my business rival, oh my.” Hert gave a small chuckle. “He was scum, as I always knew. He managed to find out one night, we don’t know how, but he found out Runil’s secret. Then he murdered that sweet old elf in his own bed. He was scum. So different from his own brother. Why, his brother Solaf, who runs the general store – have you met him?”

I vouchsafed that we had in fact met Solaf when we made our purchases at the store in question.

“Solaf actually had joined the Stormcloaks, you know? Bolund only talked, oh, he talked a good game, did Bolund, that’s all the blowhard ever did. Solaf actually did something about his beliefs. He left the Stormcloaks after he took an arrow in the knee and couldn’t fight anymore, and then he came home to Falkreath. 

“But let me tell you something. Solaf was always such a nice boy growing up. He was kind, never cruel like his brother. He cared about other people’s feelings. Even today, he’ll still tell you if you ask that he believed in Ulfric Stormcloak’s vision for independence, but he never fought with hatred in his heart. He wanted what he thought was best for Skyrim, and he took up arms for it. Bolund just went around stirring up trouble and spewing hate to everyone he met. He was the worst kind, just the worst, and it’s good that the Dragonborn showed him no mercy when she came through here.”

“The Dragonborn? She’s here?” Rochelle gave a start.

“No, no, we’re the only ones here, oh my, if I had the Dragonborn as a guest, how exciting that would be. No, she came through some time ago, and when she found out what Bolund had done… oh my. Oh my.”

“Don’t tell me. She turned him to ashes.” Rochelle had gone quite pale, which was remarkable, given her dark complexion.

“Yes, she Shouted him to dust. I heard it all the way from here. It was like thunder. But then, oh my, her voice always is.” Hert gave a nervous giggle. “Such a strong voice. Oh my. Well, I hope that dear old Runil’s soul is in a better place now. He became a worshipper, then a priest, of Arkay after he helped us all get over the Jeralls and into Skyrim. I can’t say I care much about Arkay, but… oh, I do hope Runil’s soul is being looked after, somehow.”

“I see. Yes, the quality of mercy is not strained; indeed, it drops as a gentle rain from the heavens,” I said softly, reciting some lines from a poem I had read once. “I shall offer up prayers to the Divines for the safe passage of this brave soul.”

“Just as long as you don’t call on Stendarr while you’re under my roof!”

I hastened to assure her that while under her roof we would certainly obey any such injunctions of hers.

“Now, I confess I am feeling quite exhausted. The rigors of travel, you know, and I am not as young as I once was, as you may readily perceive,” I said, giving a little laugh. “With your kind permission, I will retire for the night. You have given us most excellent fare for supper, and I do hope we can repay your charitable hospitality in some way, in the near future.”

“Oh, you will, you will,” Hert murmured, but she seemed not to be directing her response at me, precisely. Rather, her attention was fixed upon Rochelle, and she was lightly tracing the lines of muscle on Rochelle’s bare upper arm as she spoke. Rochelle, for her part, gave every appearance of being unaware of my very existence.

With due alacrity, I wished them both a good evening, and departed for my own room. Let us now draw a discreet veil over their nocturnal activities - which are certainly no one’s business but their own - although I find myself wishing that the loud moans will soon cease or at least diminish in volume, for they are proving to be quite distracting at the moment. I was not merely making a polite excuse for withdrawal from Hert’s dining table earlier. In point of fact, I do feel rather fatigued just now, and it is essential for me to be well-rested if we are to make good time tomorrow. 

I confess to feeling quite eager to be on the road again. Indeed, and why should I deny it, I am anticipating my reunion with Michel Lylvieve, and I cannot help but imagine her response when I extend to her my invitation to return. I suppose that I am fairly elated at the imminent prospect of solving Weatherleah’s staffing problem with such expedience. Once she is back in the role of housekeeper, for which she has always been so admirably suited, all things will be put back in order, I have no doubt.

Now that I read her letter again, I find myself growing concerned over her present situation. Indeed, as I recall certain aspects of her previous letters, I find that I have received a very definite impression, very definite indeed, of a general sense of hardship. It is not merely the stark contrast between the provincial life of Skyrim and the more settled way of life she and I have always been more accustomed to in our little slice of County Chorrol; in her letters, I have sometimes discerned hints of marital discord tarnishing an otherwise satisfactory living arrangement.

If these subtle intimations of unhappiness are indicative at all of a deeper sense of malaise in Michel Lylvieve’s life, then I venture to say that I am, in fact, on a mission of mercy. Surely she would be pleased at the option I shall proffer, and I see no reason why she would not accept. Surely the notion of living out the rest of her working years back in Weatherleah should offer a very genuine consolation to a life that seems to have become vexatious. 

Now, if my generous hostess and my hired mercenary would see fit to put a timely end to their clamorous exertions, I could get some much-needed sleep and be on my way as early as I can by daybreak.


	5. Fort Sungard

Rochelle’s health appears to be on the mend, thankfully. For the past six days since departing Half-Moon Mill she has seemed positively anemic to my eye. Certainly her general movements have distinctly lacked her usual vim, and I feared at first that she had come down with some sort of disease - a form of ataxia, perhaps, which is quite a problem back in Cyrodiil.

She has waved away any attempts to aid her in any fashion, however, and seems reluctant to discuss her enfeebled condition. I have noticed that she keeps looking back over her shoulder, with a somewhat longing look in her eyes. Clearly, she and Hert achieved a certain degree of intimacy over the course of that one night, and while I would hesitate to assign too much significance to such short-term dalliances, Rochelle seems genuinely stricken to have left the mill behind. Perhaps after her contract with me is ended, she might return to Falkreath and pick up the thread again, as it were, and follow it through.

There is a certain enviable quality to this sort of untrammeled freedom enjoyed by itinerant individuals such as Rochelle, and perhaps Sir Doric as well, to some degree. Personally I find it hard to imagine such a rootless vagrant life, shorn of the solid fundamental elements that provide one a sense of incomparable comfort: a home to call one’s own, and a fixed purpose to one’s existence. Indeed, I will go so far as to say that the bonds of my duty are, in a manner of speaking, the very symbols of my freedom – for it is only when I have clear loyalties and obligations to fulfill that I feel truly free.

Rochelle’s temporary lethargy has slowed our progress considerably, however, and so it is that for now we have found ourselves obliged to ask for lodging at Fort Sungard, instead of Rorikstead as we had planned. The outpost appears to be in a state of considerable dilapidation, but there is at least a strong Imperial presence here to afford us a measure of security. The officer in command is a fellow Breton as it happens, a certain Legate Emmanuel Admand. After a brief exchange of pleasantries he was courteous enough to arrange temporary lodgings for the night on our behalf.

“So where do you hail from, Sir Knight?” he asked me cheerfully as he was showing us the way to our quarters.

I told him that I was from Cyrodiil, County Chorrol, although I was born in Menevia. “My father, a distinguished knight in arms himself, took service in Chorrol when I was but a child, and so I have practically grown up as a Colovian,” I said, perhaps a tad indiscreetly. Or perhaps what transpired next was not so much a matter of my indiscretion as of his unforced gregariousness.

“Ah, I see! I was born near Skingrad myself, in an insignificant village you’ve probably never heard of. Where did you and your father take up service? Castle Chorrol? Or some lordly estate, I’ll warrant.”

It is considered ill-mannered, of course, to boast of one’s record of employment to unconcerned individuals who have no particular need to be impressed by famous names and places. Naturally I was about to make some modest remark, something to the effect that it was some obscure place he would not have heard of. I believe it would have been considered appropriate to reciprocate his own self-deprecation regarding his place of birth.

But before I could make reply, Rochelle suddenly spoke up, quite uncharacteristically. “Weatherleah,” she said, with a curious kind of expression on her face, almost like a smirk. “He serves at Weatherleah.”

Legate Emmanuel’s eyebrows shot straight up. “Weatherleah! Isn’t that where… wasn’t there some sort of big meeting there, during the Great War… I was a much younger man, then, but everyone I knew was talking about it, in the streets and in the barracks. What was it?”

“A conference.” At that moment I would very much have preferred the Rochelle the Red I hired - the one whose entire demeanor had suggested a marked disinclination to engage in casual speech - to the one who now seemed positively loquacious despite her earlier lassitude. She ignored my meaningful look, however, and continued speaking. “There was some sort of conference there, during the War. Lot of Imperial nobs got together with the elves, started talking peace, or something like that.”

“Yes, that’s right!” The Legate looked at me with a certain sort of fascination. “The Conference at Weatherleah. Right before the great push the Dominion made into the Heartland. Hosted by the Lord of the place, what was his name again…?”

Rochelle had lapsed back into silence by this point, though I greatly disliked the strange look of glee she was giving me at that moment. I saw no option but to smile politely and say, “I believe you are speaking of the late Lord Roland Jemane III, who was master of my manor in my father’s time.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the one. That’s the very name. You… you knew him well?” Legate Admand’s manner had changed somewhat - now it seemed as though he was attempting to restrain his curiosity with a certain degree of tact. Nevertheless, his line of questioning was decidedly keen.

I had to quickly master the situation before it got out of hand, and so I spoke firmly. “I’m sorry, but I am unable to satisfy your curiosity. A knight in service is not often in a position to achieve any sort of personal intimacy with his or her employer, and so I find I cannot quite say that I knew the man ‘well’, as you put it. I can indeed say that I was acquainted with His Lordship; indeed, I can say that I was in his employ, as a member of the staff; but as to his very person, it would be the utmost temerity for me to pass comment.”

Legate Admand seemed a little taken aback, but he subsided graciously enough. “Right, right. It’s only… well… Can’t blame a person for being curious, eh? I mean, the names they called him… I just wonder, you know. What sort of a person was he, really? What was he like, privately? Was he all they made him out to be, in the Black Horse Courier and those other rags? Surely you must’ve seen a few…”

“Ah, we appear to have reached our quarters,” I remarked, and made a small bow. “Thank you, Legate. You have been most kind. We have been quite enough of an imposition on you. There must be many matters of import that a man of your rank and responsibilities must see to, and we’ve taken up quite enough of your time already. I bid you a very good evening, Legate.”

He seemed slightly bemused, but returned my bow with a somewhat casual salute, fist to chest. “Good evening to you then, Sir Knight. Err, your actual rooms, they’re… take the first right, and then hang a left, it’s the second door down. Got it?”

I cannot say I did not feel tempted to chastise my impertinent hireling for her impudent display, but she quickly shut the door of her room behind her, almost in my face as it were, thus depriving me of the opportunity. In any event, I suppose that it is incumbent upon a man of my station to overlook this irritating occurrence.

Indeed, a man of my station must often overlook many things, principally the ignorant blather of the uninformed. It is probably apt at this point to say a few words concerning my late employer, Lord Roland Jemane III. It is, of course, generally accepted today that the Aldmeri Dominion never had any intention of laying out any reasonable terms in its negotiations with the Empire. That is commonly understood, and I have no wish to disagree. It is, however, rather irksome to hear it suggested that anyone who clung to a sincere wish to seek peaceful solutions to the problems confronting all Tamriel during those turbulent years was somehow supportive in any way of the Dominion’s cause - was, indeed, complicit in their agenda.

And what is more, many of those harshest and most vocal critics of Lord Jemane in the later years were the same people who were in earlier times quite enamored of him and his position on the Elder Council, and often professed their admiration of his calm, level-headed leadership. Indeed, they were guests of Weatherleah on many occasions, entrusted to my care and protection. To hear the way they talk now of the War, and in particular of His Lordship, one would think that Lord Jemane was the only one leery of open conflict with the Dominion, or that he was doing something unusual or unpatriotic in hosting Dominion diplomats. Considering that many Imperial aristocrats had long been in the habit of visiting the Summerset Isles for nothing more than recreational purposes, partaking of the hospitality of various Thalmor-affiliated individuals, the manifest hypocrisy of Lord Jemane’s churlish detractors is staggering. As I say, it is rather irksome.

Indeed, was Lord Jemane’s wish for peace and the easing of tensions between the Empire and the Dominion such a very reprehensible one? Given the hardships inflicted upon the common citizenry during the years of warfare, would it not be more accurate to characterize him as a man of mercy, a man fortunate enough to have been placed in a position where he could do his best, indeed his utmost, to bring about reconciliation between opposing parties for the ultimate good of all? Instead, there has been the unsavory and quite undeserved implication that he was liaising covertly with a known enemy of the Empire. I am in a position to vouch at first hand that he was doing nothing of the sort. I would indeed ascribe to him a quality and breadth of compassion that perhaps smaller minds are incapable of fathoming - to wit, I daresay that he was seeking the course of action most merciful for the citizens who now take liberties to lambast his name and memory, without considering the true climate of the times.

Consider, for instance, a would-be soldier whose spirit is willing but whose flesh is weak, and consequently becomes spongy and bruised over the course of his training. Would it be a mercy to allow this hypothetical person a place in the militia? Would it constitute a mercy to his comrades-in-arms, who would have to do more and give more on account of the weak link in the chain doing and giving less? Sadly, the inevitable conclusion must be that this courageous soul must be unmercifully told he may not serve as a soldier, that the greater act of mercy may be performed on all fronts: for him, for those who would otherwise have been his fellows, and for the larger interests of his community or even the Empire itself. 

Likewise, with the gradual decline of Imperial power over the years, all must acknowledge that the Empire possessed only a faint shadow of its former glory by the time Titus Mede II ascended to the throne. Could any man or woman in a position of power and authority, with the means and the wisdom to shape policy and influence great affairs of the realm, look upon the circumstances then and not seen the great folly of untrammeled bellicosity? Would it have been more merciful to the people to have thrown half-trained and depleted legions willy-nilly into the grindstone of open war?

Of course I do not say that Emperor Titus Mede II could have done other than he did, when he responded to the Dominion’s rather grisly “gift” of a cartload of heads that had belonged to Blades agents stationed on the Isles. That execrable gesture deserved, then and now, only the deepest contempt and obloquy. But the wheels of state do not turn on one axis alone. If Lord Jemane and others like him had been allowed perhaps a little more time to grease the hubs and repair the damaged spokes, as it were, who can say what might have been accomplished in the cause of peace even in the face of Thalmor intransigence?

When it comes to these grand affairs of state, of course, I profess no particular knowledge, and I would hardly claim to be any authority on the thinking of the great minds I have been privileged to guard over the course of my career. Nevertheless, I am in a position to categorically refute any salacious slander regarding Lord Roland Jemane III supposedly being a patsy, as they say, for the Aldmeri Dominion, before or after the Great War. Indeed, I can call to mind now an incident that occurred some time before the Conference that can decisively put paid to any such ill-conceived notion. Moreover, I do believe that the matter in question constituted a sort of test for my own principles, a test that I have reason to believe I passed with sufficient adequacy.

As I recall, Lord Jemane had been in the habit of delivering unpleasant or disagreeable instructions in a rather idiosyncratic way. There was a particular bookcase I remember at the foot of one of the flights of winding stairs within the manor, just beside an ornamental statue representing Lord Vivec of Morrowind in one of his many forms. I had come to discern over the years that the gentle and retiring Lord Jemane would position himself at the bookcase, and make a pretense of perusing the titles, until the person he was in fact awaiting would chance to approach the foot of the stairs. At that time he would look up, as if taken by surprise, and attempt to convey the impression that the ensuing conversation was occurring in quite an unplanned manner. His intention was clearly to smooth over any potential awkwardness preemptively, one can surmise.

“Ah, Sir Stefan,” he said to me on that occasion I now recount, with a peculiar little cough.

I bowed. “Milord.”

“Stefan, I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking. A great deal. This War… it’s quite the unpleasant business, isn’t it, Stefan?”

“As you say, milord. Regrettable.”

“Yes, quite. Regrettable. In such times… when it comes to times of war… many people must find themselves in the position of having to do regrettable things, Sir Stefan. Regrettable things.”

“As you say, milord.”

“Exigencies of war, Stefan. Trying times. In such times, all the old codes of behavior, of honor even, are thrown by the wayside… discarded… walls have ears, and all that, yes, Stefan? Espionage. I’m speaking of espionage, Stefan.”

“Indeed, milord.”

“As a noble of the Empire and member of the Elder Council… well, as involved as I have been in the most sensitive of matters affecting Imperial policy… I have a duty, do I not, to safeguard my own house from even the faintest possibility of being compromised?”

“Quite, milord. I assure you that I have taken every measure necessary to ensure the continued safety and security of all your Lordship’s guests.”

“Ah, I don’t doubt that one bit, Sir Stefan, but it is not the guests I am speaking of, at the moment. I am speaking of the staff, Stefan. The staff.”

“Milord?”

“The Falinesti incident, in Valenwood, that was not so long ago, was it?”

“Some decades now, I believe.”

“Yes, but elves of all kinds are long-lived, yes? Longer lives than us Men, and certainly longer memories.”

“Perhaps, milord. I am no authority on the subject.”

“What I’m saying, Sir Stefan, what I’m saying is… look, it’s all very well for you and me, but one can’t help feeling for those Bosmer who suffered in the aftermath of the Falinesti incident. Some very fine people suffered on all sides, yes, very fine people. On all sides. And while Valenwood is at the moment technically under the sway of the Dominion… there would be quite a number of Bosmer who escaped the Thalmor purges, and who may have their own reasons for feeling a certain understandable animosity, even enmity, towards the Thalmor. Yes?”

“I see no reason to disagree, milord.”

“This Conference we’re planning, I cannot overstate its significance, Sir Stefan, its significance. The first of the delegates will be arriving within the next week.”

“I am aware, milord.”

“In view of the persons who will be present, I do not think I exaggerate when I say that there may be considerable repercussions if anything should go awry. Considerable repercussions.”

“As you say, milord.”

“It comes down to this, Sir Stefan. It makes no matter to which side our Bosmer employees have given their allegiance. They may be spies in the employ of the Thalmor, or agitators working against them. Or, one may consider the possibility - unlikely, I think, in these trying times - that they are for neither. In any event, we simply cannot chance it, Sir Stefan. How many Bosmer do we have on staff at present?”

“I believe we have just the two, milord, who would fall into that category. Both are chambermaids.”

“Ah. Well. Of course, you’ll have to let them go.”

“I beg your pardon, milord?”

“It’s regrettable, Sir Stefan, but we have no choice. I would ask you, furthermore, in your capacity as Captain of the Guard to first ensure that neither of them has in any way acted to compromise the smooth running of the conference. I have the safety and well-being of all our guests to consider, Sir Stefan. All our guests.”

“I will do what is necessary, milord.”

“One does not like to carry on in this way,” he said then, looking down at the book in his hands in a pensive manner. “But I’ve thought this through thoroughly, Sir Stefan. I’ve thought this through thoroughly.”

Since they were chambermaids, they fell under Michel Lylvieve’s direct authority, so it was certainly required that I inform her about their dismissal. One will appreciate that I was not unperturbed at the prospect of telling her I was about to dismiss two of her chambermaids, after first putting them through a process of questioning. Indeed, they had been satisfactory employees, even excellent ones, and the news of their dismissal would no doubt be quite the shock to them, as it would be to Michel Lylvieve. In point of fact, my every instinct opposed the idea of their dismissal.

Nevertheless, my duty was clear, and it fell upon me to carry out his Lordship’s instructions in as tactful and compassionate a manner as I could contrive. And so it was that I raised the matter with Michel Lylvieve at the conclusion of our evening chat that day. I did so as concisely and professionally as I could.

“So, tomorrow I will speak with the employees in question in my antechamber after breakfast, perhaps at about nine in the morning. I would be grateful, Michel, if you could send them along by that time. I leave it entirely up to you whether you wish to inform them beforehand about the nature of what I will say to them.”

At this point, she seemed to have nothing to say in response. So I continued, “Well, Michel, this is indeed a very pleasant Tamika vintage. I should be pleased to finish this tomorrow with you. It’s high time we both turned in now. Another busy day tomorrow.”

“Stefan,” she said then, in an odd voice, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Melothil and Elriniel have been working here for longer than I have. They respect me as matron, as I respect them. They’ve served excellently, without fault.”

“I have no doubt, Michel. However, we mustn’t allow sentiment to creep into our judgment. Now, really, we should both be turning in…”

“Sir Stefan, this is outrageous. I cannot believe you are sitting there and speaking of this as though we were discussing the contents of the larder. Am I to understand that they are to be dismissed simply because they are Bosmer?”

“Michel, I have just given you a full explanation. The fact of the matter is, his Lordship has made his decision, so there is nothing for us to do but to carry it out as best as we can.”

“Does it not occur to you, Sir Stefan, that to dismiss them in this way would be simply… wrong? I warn you, I cannot and will not work in a house in which such things can occur. I simply won’t stand for it.”

“Michel, please. I would ask you not to excite yourself. The dismissal of staff is the prerogative of the lord of the manor, after all. He has thought this through thoroughly, and come to a decision regarding these particular contracts. There is no question of professional malfeasance on the part of the Bosmer girls - you and I are in a position to write them very good referrals, very good indeed, which will stand them in good stead as they seek other employment.”

“Stefan, think for a moment, please. They would have to disclose that they had been dismissed just a week prior to the Conference. Two Bosmer girls, Stefan! Dismissed from Weatherleah! It wouldn’t matter what sort of references we gave. Finding a new place of work is never easy at the best of times, but in times like these… Stefan, I am telling you, if you dismiss my girls tomorrow it would be wrong. Simply wrong. I will not be able to accept it and I will not continue to work in such a house.”

“Michel, I would venture to suggest that neither you nor I are well-placed to pass judgment upon his Lordship’s decisions. The fact is, times have changed. The politics of the realm have become ever more complicated and treacherous. The Thalmor-led invasion continues unabated, spreading the ravages of war. There are simply too many things you and I are simply not in a position to understand, and we are hardly to attempt to shape his Lordship’s policy on such fraught matters as, say, the question of our Bosmer employees’ loyalties and affiliations. Now, what we __are__  in fact in a position to do is to carry out the orders we are given, but apply our own tincture of tact and compassion, to make the process as painless as possible. That I will endeavor to do, Michel Lylvieve, I do so pledge it upon my honor. Now, I really must bid you goodnight. Please send the employees up in the morning, Michel.”

When they came the next morning it was evident that Michel Lylvieve had elected to be frank with them regarding the purpose of the meeting, for they were both weeping and sobbing. I did my duty, asking them some routine questions about their recent activities to ascertain that no suspicion need fall upon either of their shoulders. Then I assured them that their work record had been most satisfactory, and accordingly they would receive good references - they were not to depart under any sort of cloud. As I recall, neither of them said anything of note during those few minutes, and they left sobbing as they had come.

Michel Lylvieve’s manner towards me was cold for quite some time after the dismissal, but as the days passed she showed no intention of making good on her declaration that she would leave Weatherleah. This eased my concern somewhat, for she was an extremely competent matron, as I have observed, and the manor’s smooth running and prestige would have suffered significantly if she had handed in her notice mere days before the great Conference.

Surely it should be clear to anyone apprised of the full facts of the situation that Lord Roland Jemane III was acting, not only in the best interest of his guests, but in the best interest of all the Empire. Indeed, he could hardly have decided differently, given the vast array of factors he had to consider. He had obviously considered all germane possibilities, including that of the Bosmer being Thalmor spies. This is hardly the thinking of a “Thalmor patsy”, and indeed constitutes proof to the contrary regarding accusations of “consorting with the enemy”. His chief concern, one will see, was the integrity of the Conference; nothing could have been permitted to compromise its purpose.

In any event, even the accusation of his Lordship having a certain unfeeling quality falters in the light of what he did approximately a year later. By then, it had already become abundantly clear that the Thalmor had not acted in good faith, and Lord Jemane was already solidly behind the Imperial war effort, as indeed he had been from the beginning, once the underlying principles of his approach were properly understood. The monetary contributions from Weatherleah’s estate during the War were not insignificant; this is a matter of public record.

I encountered him once again at the foot of the stairs, as I recall. He looked up as I approached from above.

“Ah, Sir Stefan. I’ve been meaning to ask you. About that business last year. With the Bosmer maids. You remember?”

“Certainly, milord.”

“I don’t suppose there is any way of tracking them down, is there? It was wrong, what happened, and I would like to recompense them in some way.”

“I believe it will be quite difficult, milord. But I will look into the matter.”

“See what you can do about it, Sir Stefan. The manor’s resources are at your disposal. It was wrong, what happened. It was wrong.”

I assumed this conversation would be of great interest to Michel Lylvieve, and so I hastened to where she would be at the moment, which was in the hothouse. She was seated with a book among the flowers when I went in.

It was always a rejuvenating experience to visit the hothouse and stroll or sit among the flora, collected from all over Tamriel. The flaring crimson petals of the Domica Redwort from Valenwood, the delicate green fronds of the Somnalius Fern from Black Marsh, and many other botanical wonders besides were all housed in that one building.  Sometimes, I cannot help but feel a certain regret for the necessary decision I had to take a few years ago, to reduce the upkeep costs of the manor by relinquishing the hothouse and its contents entirely.

“I was just thinking earlier, Michel,” I said, with a small laugh, “how very fortunate that you still have not made good on your threat to leave Weatherleah.”

At this she seemed to have nothing to say in reply, but continued gazing out of the windows, at the great expanse of fog outside. As I recall, it was a rather misty day.

Before too long, however, she spoke.

“You probably have no idea, Stefan,” she said, in a voice I can only describe as tired, “how seriously I thought about it at that time. I felt so strongly about what happened. I daresay I should have done so.” She looked down and sighed. “I suppose there’s only one thing you could call it, Stefan. Cowardice. Simple cowardice. Where could I have gone? I couldn’t have survived by myself out there, not with the way things were last year, and I certainly couldn’t do it now if I wanted to try. I don’t even like to think of where Melothil and Elriniel went, whether they got by, where they are today… if they’re even still alive. Every time I thought of leaving, I… I became afraid. That is all my high-mindedness amounts to, Stefan. I just… didn’t want to leave.”

She grew quiet then, and seemed to be in deep thought. I judged that it was an opportune time to convey the news I had.

“It is fortunate indeed, Michel, that you have not in fact left. I have something to relate that may lift your spirits. I have just this moment come from a conversation with his Lordship. He has given me instructions to attempt the location of the two Bosmer individuals under discussion, with all resources at my disposal. It will be a difficult undertaking, of course, with no guarantee of success, but I shall begin forthwith, and commence making enquiries within Chorrol City very soon. What’s done can hardly be undone, Michel, but it is at least a great comfort to hear his Lordship declare so unequivocally that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. I just thought you’d like to know, Michel, since as I recall you were as distressed by the episode as I was.”

“Stefan,” she said then, in an entirely new voice. “I don’t understand you.” She stood up. “As I recall, you thought it only right and proper that Melothil and Elriniel be sent packing. You were positively cheerful about it.”

“Now really, Michel, that is quite incorrect and unfair. The whole matter caused me great concern, great concern indeed. It is hardly the sort of thing one likes to see happen.”

_“Then why, Sir Stefan, did you not tell me so at the time?”_

This question was posed rather forcefully, and I was at somewhat of a loss to answer. I gave a laugh, but could not formulate a response before Michel resumed speaking.

“Do you realize, Stefan, how much it would have meant to me to know that… to know that you shared my sentiment last year? You knew full well how upset I was about my girls being dismissed. Do you know how much it would have helped me, to know that you felt as I did, even if you felt you had to do otherwise? Why, oh why, Stefan, do you always have to _pretend_?”

I could not help giving another little laugh at the ridiculous turn the conversation had taken. “Pretend? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Michel. Why, really…”

“I suffered so much over the way you… over the way we handled the matter, over Melothil and Elriniel having to leave. And I suffered all the more because… I believed I was alone. You seemed so _brisk_ about it, so eager to obey Lord Jemane’s orders. You were even telling me how you thought it seemed perfectly justified to you.”

“Really, Michel…” I thought it prudent at that moment to leave the hothouse temporarily, to allow Michel a modicum of privacy within which to calm down. “Naturally, one disapproved of the dismissals. One would have thought that quite self-evident.”

As I was leaving, I glanced over my shoulder at her. It had grown quite dark by then, and the illumination was even less within the confines of the hothouse. All I could see of her was her profile, one shadow among many, against a pale and empty background.

I see that I have inadvertently allowed myself to become lost in old memories while attempting to lay out the sound arguments for Lord Roland Jemane III’s vindication. What I was intending to convey was that contrary to all the foolish things that have been said about his Lordship, my chief satisfaction in my career derives from all that I achieved during my years of service to a wise, judicious and empathetic member of the Elder Council. Indeed, and why should I not say it, I am today proud and grateful to have been given the privilege of not only serving his Lordship, but of being, in some ways, his friend.


	6. Rorikstead - Frostfruit Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> E lucevan le stelle  
> Ed olezzava la terra  
> Stridea l'uscio dell'orto  
> E un passo sfiorava la rena  
> Entrava ella fragrante  
> Mi cadea fra le braccia... 
> 
> O dolci baci, O languide carezze,   
> Mentr'io fremente   
> Le belle forme disciogliea dai veli!   
> Svanì per sempre il sogno mio d'amore,  
> L'ora è fuggita!  
> E muoio disperato! E muoio disperato...  
> E non ho amato mai tanto la vita!  
> Tanto la vita...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Day is an actual holiday in High Rock, celebrated mostly in a few rural areas.
> 
> Silver is of use in detecting the presence of primarily sulphur-based contaminants, including arsenic sulfide. In some real-world feudal societies, silver was used by the aristocracy as a method to detect assassination attempts involving poisoning.

The road we followed out of Fort Sungard took us past one of the wonders Sir Doric spoke of: an ancient dragon mound, surrounded by great menhirs, just off the side of the road as if it were a common feature of the natural landscape. The mound itself looked to have been excavated, but clumsily, as if by a giant claw, and in the plains surrounding it one can discern huge furrows of torn earth, as if some mighty beast had thrust its appendages into the soil and plowed it as a farmer might till his field. Clearly, this was one of the sites where a dragon made an appearance, and subsequently was vanquished in battle by the woman called the Dragonborn.

No dragon skeleton could be seen anywhere, however, so regrettably I could not obtain a token of some sort to show Michel Lylvieve, or a souvenir of my trip I could present to Sir Doric. If nothing else, a chipped dragon talon or a fragment of a wing bone would have made quite the conversation piece.

We are staying now at Frostfruit Inn, in the hamlet of Rorikstead; or rather, it would be more accurate to say that I am currently occupying a room alone here, while my traveling companion recuperates in a guest room inside the village manor. We were fortunate to encounter yet another generous fellow Breton in the person of an elderly gentleman named Jouane Manette. Rochelle the Red’s indisposition has only worsened over the past few days; her dark complexion may now be described as possessing an almost pallid cast, and her demeanor is increasingly listless. After we settled into our rooms at the inn I decided to make a trip up to the local manor to pay my respects and to enquire at the same time about the whereabouts of any such person as an apothecary or herbalist in the village.

Imagine my immense gratification to discover that the master of the manor, Rorik - for whom the town would appear to have been named - has Jouane Manette in his employ. It transpires that Jouane Manette had, in fact, served in the Legion during the Great War as a skilled healer, and when he heard me describe my ailing bodyguard’s symptoms he insisted that I send her up to the manor straightaway, to receive his personal attention.

I was relieved to hear that Rochelle simply requires a few days of rest before she is fit once again to travel. It seems her skin will be sensitive to sunlight for some time, though, so she will find it necessary to travel with a cloak and hood drawn securely about her person. Jouane Manette has given her a nourishing tonic that will aid in her convalescence, and she assures me rather gruffly that she will complete her contract and see me to Dragon Bridge at least before departing to seek more comprehensive treatment.

When I broached the subject of remuneration, Jouane Manette would hear none of it.

“It’s a spare room, in any case. It’s not as if we have any use for it. May as well let her rest there. I only regret we don’t have another vacant room, so we can’t extend the same hospitality to you.”

“I assure you, my lodgings at Frostfruit Inn are quite adequate, and give me no cause for complaint. I am quite satisfied with these arrangements, and I must thank you once again for the help you’ve rendered us.”

“Think nothing of it. We’re simple folk here in Rorikstead, but we’ve been blessed. Good fertile land for our crops, and the depredations of the recent civil war have not been too great. Of course, there was the business of the dragons some time ago, but again we have the Divines to thank; the Dragonborn was able to vanquish them before things got out of hand, and the damage to our houses was minimal.”

“I chanced to come across a dragon mound on the way here. Truly remarkable. If they are any indication of the typical size of a dragon…”

“Ah yes, that one, along the road to Fort Sungard? We have another one, due west of here. Less than an hour’s walk, in fact. And, as we discovered to our dismay, a dragon on the wing can fly from there to here in a matter of moments. We were truly fortunate to have the Dragonborn here at the time. Ask anyone in the village, and they’ll tell you all about how she fought three of the creatures, all at once, right here in Rorikstead. I saw that battle up close. Why, one of them perished almost on the doorstep of the manor, as it were! Its bones caused quite the obstruction. Yes, it was quite the inconvenience… but also quite the monument.” He laughed.

“Pardon me, but I seem to have failed to perceive any sign of these bones…”

“Ah…” He gave a little cough. “We, well, not to put too fine a point on it, we chopped it down and sold the pieces to alchemists. Great alchemical value there is, in dragon bones. I kept some myself. What we could sell fetched quite the price in Whiterun and Morthal. And we did it quite promptly, too, or else we would have had far too many travelers coming here just to gawk at the thing. Not that we mind the occasional wayfarer like yourself,” he added hastily, “but well, we’re a quiet community here, and we like to keep it that way. Peace and prosperity, that’s all we want here in Rorikstead.”

He looked at me quizzically then, and nodded to himself. “I have it now. Couldn’t quite make you out at first - you speak almost like a Breton out of High Rock! Very polished accent, yes, and very fine manners too. Courtly, even. But you’re a Colovian after all, aren’t you? Pardon me for asking.”

“Not at all,” I said, smiling slightly to put him at his ease. “You are quite right, and may I commend you on the acuity of your hearing and the accuracy of your insight. I did spend some years of my childhood in my birthplace of Menevia, but my family moved to settle in County Chorrol before I had seen six summers.”

“Ah, Menevia. I had a cousin twice removed who was born in Menevia. For the most part, my family has roots in Camlorn, in Glenumbra. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve spent most of my life in Cyrodiil; indeed, I can hardly be said to have left the boundaries of County Chorrol prior to this trip I am taking.”

“Well then, may I offer you a toast: to the pleasures of the open road. Now that the Dragonborn has defeated most of the hostile dragons and also ended the Civil War, more or less, such pleasures need not be had at the expense of safety, it is to be hoped. Of course,” he added reflectively, “there is the coming renewal of conflict with the Aldmeri Dominion to consider. I’m sure it’s coming, at least. This armistice, sadly, is not a peace. This village has paid its price, in both the Great War and the recent Civil War that just concluded. Yes, we have paid our price, but I feel sure that there is yet more that will be taken from us.”

On that somber note I departed the manor, and perhaps some of Jouane Manette’s lugubrious musings have influenced my mood. It would be a pity indeed, I reflected, for these fertile lands surrounding us to be devastated once again by the fires of war. When I went out for a stroll earlier, I could not help but marvel at the sheer fecundity of the soil hereabouts. Indeed, even on the uncultivated hills to the west one may readily perceive an extent of wild growth that hitherto I have not seen in Skyrim. The profundity and vivacity of the flora here puts me rather in mind, once again, of Weatherleah’s hothouse.

No, that is not quite correct after all - the hothouse was a magnificent repository of plants from all over Tamriel, but gazing out at the slopes and fields made me think not of the hothouse, but of my first Flower Day, back in Menevia. It is a memory dimmed by the passage of time, and of course I was barely a child of three winters then, so my recollections cannot be said to possess much beyond some vivid sensory impressions. Specifically, the primary impression I gained upon looking out at the flowers was olfactory in nature - I am recalling, even now, the mixed smell of hyacinth and winter aconite.

I seem to recall it was the smell of my handkerchief, but then one is hard put to explain why a boy of three would have occasion to have in his personal possession such a thing as a scented handkerchief. Perhaps it was an object belonging to a member of my family. It is entirely possible that this handkerchief - which may or may not have existed - belonged, after all, to my mother, or some close female relative.

Of course, I may well be confusing this memory with that of another handkerchief which definitely can be said to have existed. It was one that belonged to Michel Lylvieve, and the circumstances under which I came to hold it in my hands are of such a memorable nature that it is not surprising the smell itself has remained lodged in my remembrances, by association. To wit, the fragrance brings to mind the set of events that occurred around and during the Conference at Weatherleah.

By 173, the War had not yet reached its apogee, properly speaking, but already the countryside was swamped with refugees and each county’s militia had been turned out in full force. The sight of soldiers marching down the roads had become entirely commonplace. Privation was discernibly on the rise, and we had begun the process of rationing the stores at Weatherleah, setting aside a generously measured portion for the succor of any unfortunates who might chance to wander upon our lands.

Lord Roland Jemane III had, by that time, formulated a clear goal in his mind: to gather a broad alliance of key figures who could wield sufficient influence - within Empire and Dominion alike - to put a swift and expedient end to the conflict. For this purpose, he would call for a Conference under the very roof of Weatherleah Manor during which all the participants would discuss the means by which the war could be brought to a conclusion. These were dignitaries from all over Tamriel, diplomats and aristocrats, military leaders of high rank: nobles from Nibenay and Colovia, representatives of both Crowns and Forebears in Hammerfell, emissaries from territories in Valenwood, ambassadors from Anequina and Pelletine, and even Jarls of Skyrim.

And of course, since no Conference of this nature would hold any sway in great affairs without prominent participation on the part of the Thalmor, his Lordship had worked extremely hard to secure the attendance of the Dominion’s two foremost military commanders, Lord Naarifin and Lady Arannelya. Without his Lordship’s efforts, made at considerable personal cost and with significant hardship to his person, the crucial element of their presence would have been missing, rendering the Conference nothing more than an indulgence and a toothless endeavor, full of sound and fury but ultimately signifying nothing. To witness his unswerving determination with which he persevered in the face of countless frustrations was truly a humbling experience.

The pressures on myself, though of course of an altogether more modest nature than those mounting on his Lordship, were nevertheless not inconsequential. The safety and security of each and every guest would fall within my ambit; if even the least member of a delegation came to harm in any way, and had cause to complain, it could have had repercussions of unimaginable largeness. The problem was further compounded by the uncertainty, up to the very last few preceding days, about the exact numbers which would be in attendance. Furthermore, it became abundantly clear that the Conference was vulnerable to outside interference, from saboteurs of ill-intent bent upon upsetting the proceedings and putting an abrupt end to the peace talks, particularly by means of assassination. It was clear to me and the guards under my command that we would have to work with not only greater vigilance than ever, but also unusual flexibility. In point of fact, it was my opinion for quite some time prior to the Conference that the challenge ahead of me could not be surmounted without increasing our numbers, perhaps augmenting them with guards from the City or even Castle Chorrol.

In the event, I decided against that option, reasoning that to have to deal with unknown quantities just before an event of this magnitude would constitute an unconscionable risk. I set about devising the security arrangements for the Manor much as a general might plan a campaign, taking into account contingencies, analyzing with a merciless eye our strengths and weakness, and even going as far as to institute a temporary milieu of quasi-military discipline among the guards under my command. I impressed upon them that they could take great pride in discharging their duties honorably over the days to come.

“History,” I told them, “could well be made under this roof. Our work could well be crucial, even vital, to hastening the end of this war. Lives could be saved by our careful and conscientious adherence to our duties.” And they, knowing me to be one not prone to exaggerated statements, understood from my words that the Conference was in fact an extraordinary opportunity for their individual actions to have a significant impact upon great affairs of the realm.

I had made myself personally responsible for greeting each contingent of delegates as it arrived, reasoning that their peace of mind could only be enhanced by the assurance that the Captain of the Guard and Master-at-Arms was personally cognizant of their presence and security needs from arrival to departure. I daresay that in my full ceremonial regalia I cut quite the formidable figure, especially in those younger days of mine, and this manner of presenting myself would no doubt discourage some of the more faint-hearted attempts at disrupting the Conference.

When Arcturus Valga - that is to say, the Viscount of Chorrol - arrived, though, he prevailed upon me to follow him inside the manor and into one of the smaller sitting rooms. Evidently he had an urgent desire for private conversation, as he soon made plain.

After I had ensured to his satisfaction that we would be neither disturbed nor overheard, we sat together. “Stefan, let’s drop the ceremony for a moment. We’ve been friends for a long time, haven’t we?”

“Indeed.”

“So we can be frank with each other.”

“You know that is so, Arcturus.”

“Good. Good.” He sighed. “Look, I hardly need to tell you, do I, what I feel towards his Lordship. I mean, the man’s been like a second father to me, almost. I hardly need to tell you, Stefan.”

“Indeed.”

“I care deeply for him.”

“Of course.”

“And you do as well. Don’t you?”

“Certainly.”

“Right. So we know where we stand, yes? Let’s face the facts. He is making a mistake, Stefan. Lord Roland Jemane is making a huge mistake.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“He’s out of his depth!” Arcturus exclaimed. “He is in deep waters, and I’ve been watching him swim further and further out, and… Stefan, do you know what is going on in the rest of Cyrodiil, down in the south, at this very moment?”

“It is difficult to get much in the way of reliable report in such troubled times, Arcturus, as you well know, and if this is the case for such as his Lordship, then why would you think I would know any better than he does?”

“Confound it, Stefan, don’t give me that. Everyone from the lowliest beggar to the Emperor himself knows that the Aldmeri Dominion is massing its forces for the true assault. Leyawiin fallen. Bravil fallen. The Dominion’s host under Lady Arannelya stomped straight west across the Reserve, into Hammerfell, forcing our legions there to escape across the Alik’r. Gods, my throat is parched just thinking about it. Can you even imagine how many soldiers died on that March of Thirst, as they’re calling it?”

“Such are indeed the horrors of war, Arcturus, and these are precisely the kind of things that his Lordship has been working against. He is working against war itself.”

“Working against!” Arcturus buried his head in his hands. “If by that you mean he is working against the Imperial war _effort,_ I suppose you would be closer to the mark! No, no,” he added hastily. “I’m not spreading those other horrible canards we’ve heard about his Lordship. You understand me, Stefan? I don’t think his Lordship is doing it on _purpose_. He has worked wonders, absolute wonders, to bring this Conference about, and he believes - faithfully believes - that he is doing something good and honorable. Aren’t you curious at all, Stefan, about the true state of things?”

“It is not my place to be curious about such matters, Arcturus.”

“Not your…” He seemed to be at a loss for words momentarily. “But you care about his Lordship, don’t you? I know you do. And you’ve just told me as much. If you care about his Lordship, shouldn’t you be concerned? At least a little curious? The two most reviled generals of the Dominion are coming here to this very manor and you’re not the least bit curious about what they really intend?”

“I would not say I am without the emotion of curiosity, Arcturus, but… I am not in a position to display my curiosity about such matters.”

“Ah me. Position. It comes to that again, does it?” He slumped in his chair. “I suppose you believe this to be loyalty. Do you? Do you believe this is loyalty? If so, to whom, exactly? Or what?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“I’ll tell you this, Stefan. His Lordship is being made a fool of. I’ve seen the reports, I’ve heard the news, I’ve taken a good look at the situation. I tell you, his Lordship is being made a fool of.”

To that, I could make no suitable reply, and Arcturus spent a few minutes gazing at the floor, before he spoke again. “He is a dear, dear man. But the fact is that he is out of his depth. He’s being outmaneuvered. The Dominion is maneuvering him like a plaything. Don’t say you haven’t noticed this.”

“I’m sorry, Arcturus. I have failed to notice any such development.”

“Stendarr have mercy. I suppose you wouldn’t. Stefan, listen. His Lordship is noble, and kind, perhaps a little naive or ignorant at times - yes, let’s not deny it - but his instincts are, at their root, good. It’s his instinct to try and be generous and friendly to _everybody._ You must have seen this, how could you not see this? The way the Dominion is taking this, turning something fine and noble and using it for their own foul ends?”

“I cannot say much about the Dominion’s purported ends, Arcturus, but if what the Conference achieves here is peace, and a cessation to the suffering you’ve alluded to, I fail to see how they are ‘foul’, as you put it.”

“What’s ‘foul’ is this: that because of this Conference, the muster of the Imperial Legions is being stymied. The Generals are calling for swift action to strike at the Dominion’s forces before all their preparations are made, and maybe they could even try to retake Bravil at the same time, but the response from so many regions has been slow, slow, _slow_. Or not forthcoming at all. So many of the other lords and ladies are biding their time, using this Conference as an excuse to delay sending their forces to join up with the central command. You can be sure the Dominion is suffering no such delay!”

“I’m sorry, Arcturus, but I cannot see that his Lordship is doing anything other than that which is highest and noblest. He is doing his very best to bring about peace between the Empire and the Dominion.”

He looked at me morosely for a few moments. “And do you think that’s what will happen here? Do you think that’s going to be the outcome? Is it even a probable outcome?”

“It is hardly my place, Arcturus, to be speculating on what is or is not probable when it comes to great affairs like this Conference. It is my place, however, to ensure the safety of all guests here, such as yourself…”

“Stefan,” he said, interrupting me, “please. _He will listen to you_. You may not think so, but trust me, he thinks the world of you. You’re a… what was his phrase, he said it to me once, ah yes, you’re a ‘pillar of probity’. He’s even told me I should strive to be a little more like you, Stefan, did you know that? You’re disciplined, dedicated, dutiful… always trying to cultivate yourself in all kinds of ways. I look positively dissipated next to you. Dissolute, even!” He gave a rueful chuckle.

“I would hardly say that, Arcturus.”

“He will listen to you. Only… only _advise_  him a little. At this point we can’t turn back time, can’t appeal to Akatosh for anything of that sort, but… at the very least, he has to be more wary of the Aldmeri Dominion’s delegation when they arrive. He can’t be seen fawning all over them, he can’t be seen to be too friendly with them. It would make him look foolish, although in the eyes of many he already is! Oh dear, now I’ve really offended you,” he said, because I had just stood up at that moment.

“Not at all, Arcturus.” I had heard the approach of another carriage to the manor. “It would seem that more guests have arrived. I appear to be required outside. Please excuse me, your Excellency,” I said, reverting to the formal mode of address. “Perhaps we can continue speaking at another time.”

The steady arrival of guests precluded the resumption of our conversation, however, and the next opportunity I had to see Viscount Valga again was at the welcome dinner, a rather grand affair that must have taxed the kitchen and serving staff to their limits. I remember thinking that they were surely to be commended for a most impressive showing, befitting the dignity of the occasion. It was always something of a memorable sight to see the magnificent banquet hall employed to its full capacity. That evening was certainly no exception.

I was standing in the room in my designated position, behind and to the left of his Lordship’s chair, when he stood up to make the host’s speech.

“Honored guests,” he said, “distinguished ambassadors, eminent leaders - dear friends. We are gathered here today in a spirit of amity, and a desire to see peace prevail. It is my sincere hope that we here at this Conference, at this table, are agreed in recognizing that the question of relations between Empire and Dominion is of the first importance for both nations, and for all Tamriel. I ask that you all join me in expressing our shared desire for all our peoples to cease going to war, and to never do so again.

“In the coming days, we shall have much to discuss with one another, and we shall be doing so with a spirit of openness and an honest desire to work for the common good, as a prelude to a larger agreement in which all people everywhere may find peace. We are hereby resolved that this method of open consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with the tensions between our nations, and any other questions that may concern us, and we are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference, and thus to contribute to assure the peace of Tamriel.

“My good friends… at this time in history, we who rule and lead have a matchless opportunity to bring back to our respective peoples news of the very best kind: news of peace with honor. I believe that we here can achieve… peace for our time. For your presence here, I thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. A toast: to peace!”

I felt a tug, then, at my left sleeve. It was a serving maid, a young Argonian girl, whose tail was swishing anxiously. “Pardon, sir. I was told to come fetch you at once,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Matron sent me. Pardon.”

“What is it?” I said, perhaps a little irritably. It was hardly the time and place for me to be leaving my station, as anyone could appreciate.

“It’s Matron sent me, sir. It’s your father, sir. He’s taken ill, he has.”

At that moment, Lord Jemane had just sat down, and the applause around the table was long and loud. With a discreet gesture, I motioned one of the other guards - Guardswoman Lyra was the closest at hand - to take my place, before I followed the Argonian maid out of the room, into the hallway, and up the stairs.

Michel Lylvieve was standing outside my father’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and she was peering in with an anxious air about her. At my approach, she turned to look at me.

At that time, we had not yet exchanged words since the dismissal of Melothil and Elriniel. I had found myself obliged to use intermediaries whenever I needed to communicate something to her in a professional capacity, which of course I found somewhat vexing. But now, she stepped up to me solicitously.

“He’s inside, Stefan. I found him lying on the floor near the stairs. He seemed to have fainted, but he’s awake now. And asking for you.”

Over the years, as my father’s age advanced and his health correspondingly declined, we had come to converse less and less. I was given the honor of taking up his duties as Master-at-Arms after he perforce had to give them up, and the obligations of my dual role were a significant weight on my shoulders. I had rarely had reason to enter my father’s quarters prior to this occasion, and when I did so, I was struck anew by the smallness and starkness of it. Indeed, I recall now that my initial impression was that I had stepped into a crypt, or a tomb, but perhaps this impression was the result of the poor interior lighting as well as the fact of my father’s body lying supine on the bed in the middle of the room, against the far wall. His chest heaved slowly, with the gravity of the tides, as he took each labored breath, but I was somewhat relieved that his respiration seemed regular.

It was not without a sense of awkwardness that I approached the bedside. Our most recent interactions had taken place in what I could only call an atmosphere of mutual embarrassment, since as a footman he technically came under my authority in not one, but two capacities. I could ascertain, however, that contrary to what Michel had said to me, my father seemed to be in a state of slumbering repose. But just as I was about to depart quietly and leave him to his rest, the Argonian maid entered, and began shaking him none too gently.

“What in Oblivion!” I exclaimed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Pardon, sir! The old sir said to wake him if you came!” She seemed frightened, but continued shaking my father.

“Leave him be! What in the name of… Leave off!”

“Sir, pardon, sir! He said I had to, sir! He made me promise!”

My father opened his eyes then, turned his head a little on the pillow, and looked at me.

Michel came in then, took the Argonian maid by the arm - I cannot recall her name, try as I may - and escorted her quickly out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her. I was left alone in the room with my father. For a time, the only sound was his ragged breathing.

After a while, I gave a little cough, and said, “I hope Father is feeling better now.”

He took some time to gather his thoughts, or possibly his breath, before he replied. “Is everything in hand downstairs?”

“The atmosphere seems convivial enough, Father. There is every reason to believe that this Conference will commence, at least, on a hopeful note.”

A look of impatience crossed his craggy features. “Yes, but is everything in hand?”

“Yes, of course, Father. You may rest assured of that. The safety of the guests is paramount, as you taught me. I have taken all necessary measures and prepared for all eventualities. I’m so glad Father is feeling better.”

I turned to go, but he seemed to have more to say. “Stefan. Wait.”

I complied, and waited patiently while he slowly sat up in his bed, and proceeded to gaze tiredly at the backs of his hands in front of him. He continued to do this for some time.

Eventually I coughed again, and said, “I’m so glad Father is feeling better. I’d best be getting back to my post. As Father has taught me, my duties are paramount.”

He spoke rather slowly, then, as if it was an effort to vocalize. “I hope I have been a good father to you.”

I laughed a little and said, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better now.”

“I’m proud of you. I know I haven’t said so. But I am. I’m proud of you. A good son. A good knight. I hope I’ve been a good father to you. I suppose I haven’t.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be extremely busy tonight, but we can talk again in the morning.”

He was looking at his hands still, and in the dim light the expression on his downcast face seemed strange - it was as if he was vaguely irritated by what he saw.

“I’m sorry about your mother. I know the fault was mine. It was not yours. Never yours. It was mine.”

“Father really should get some rest now. You have been working rather too hard, one supposes. As ever, Father sets an example to us all. I’d best be going now. I should return to my post.”

“I’m sorry about your mother. I’m sorry about everything. The beatings and all. You never gave me cause to be displeased, not truly. You’re a good son. Always have been.”

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better now,” I said again, and took my leave.

Outside, Michel was waiting in silence. When I emerged, she turned to me and took hold of my hands.

“I have rather more time than you at the moment, I think. I can stay here with him, see to his needs. I’ve already sent someone out for a healer, from the city. One should be arriving shortly.”

“Thank you, Michel. I’m grateful for your assistance. Please send word to me if anything noteworthy occurs.”

“Of course, Stefan.”

When I returned to the banquet hall, Lord Naarifin of the Dominion delegation was on his feet and coming to the end of his address. I am, possibly, one of the last people to have seen him outside the context of the battlefield, and indeed one of the last to have seen him speaking at a dinner table, as opposed to hanging as a denuded corpse from the top of White-Gold Tower.

“So, to conclude, I and the Lady Arannelya,” he was saying, “have come principally to listen, and also to speak for the Dominion as needed. The recent tensions are, we believe, nothing more than the accumulated consequence of various misunderstandings, and a resolution for our present troubles must be arrived at in a spirit of mutual respect and a shared desire for justice.

“I hear murmuring at what I have just said, and I quite understand. Where emotions are unchecked and unexamined, calm reason falters. Tensions escalate, and open conflict is the inevitable result. Differing interpretations exist as to the import of recent events. Yet I will say it again, in plainer terms: all that the Dominion wishes to accomplish at the present time is nothing more or less than _justice_.

“There are those, we are aware, who have decried the events of the 30th of Frostfall, and pointed to that day as evidence of the Dominion’s ‘provocations’. I will not rehash that casuistry here, since I can readily perceive that I am in learned and well-informed company, capable of sifting truth from falsehood, reality from rumor, nuance from malicious misinformation. The Blades were, no doubt, an ancient and revered martial order, and for good reason. But it has never been said that their honorable legacy should be tarnished by acts of treachery. I speak, of course, of espionage and indeed all manner of despicable subterfuge.

“If one should come to the Summerset Isles as a friend, come openly in the warm light of day, and be merry! We welcome all visitors to our fair lands as friends. But to wear the appearance of goodwill as a false masque, while hiding a blade of deceit under a cloak of hypocrisy, that we cannot condone. I fear that the order of the Blades is not as it once was. It has become corrupt, untrue to its original purposes; being so, it has become obsolete, no longer an organization serving a worthy function.

“And then of course, there is the question of Talos-worship, as I have mentioned. But these things and more will be discussed in greater detail in the coming days, I have no doubt. The Lady Arannelya and I are both gratified to be here, among so many like-minded individuals. We of the Thalmor wish for peace and prosperity for all, not just in Alinor, not just in the Summerset Isles, but all across the world. Let us work toward a common spirituality that will strengthen the bonds between all the cultures and races of Tamriel. I wish once again to raise my cup in thanks to our gracious host, Lord Roland Jemane, third of that name, and I hope you will all rise to join me in this toast.”

There was a small ripple of applause, followed by a general movement around the table then, as the seated guests stood to drink - all but a few. It was the Skyrim delegation that now sat, grim of countenance, and Jarl Hrolfdir (of Markarth, ruler of The Reach) was indeed all but glowering.

As soon as the cups and goblets had been set down, the Jarl rose to his feet, looking for all the world like a massive bear.

“Esteemed host Lord Jemane,” he began, “I have a question, if I may. I just wish to ask a question.”

A fraught stillness descended upon the guests. The Lady Arannelya and the Lord Naarifin looked away, appearing to sneer in a rather cold manner. I could see my guards subtly altering their posture, ready to respond to any commotion.

“I wish to ask just this,” the Jarl continued. He spoke with slow deliberation. “To what extent does abominable cowardice represent the official policy of the Empire?”

Dead silence met his words. He uttered a short, sharp laugh that seemed more like a feral bark, and said, “I don’t claim to speak for the Empire. I know what you all think of me. Of us. We’re a backwater province, to you. You think we live like savages, up north in Skyrim. Well, I grant you, we haven’t got much in the way of fine fabrics and textiles. Good deal less than most of you, for sure. Have to admit, we wear a great deal more in the way of furs. We’re not so… _sophisticated_ … as most of you here. I grant you that.”

He picked up a goblet in front of him. It was part of the silverware, as I recall, with excellent filigree.

“This silver,” he said in a low growl, “came from our mines. I know, because I sent these myself as a gift, to our gracious host.” With a sudden clenching of his fist, he crushed the goblet, and dropped it onto the table. There was hardly a gaze in the room, I think, that was not drawn to the grotesque sight of the crushed goblet, evidence of the Jarl’s formidable physical might.

He leaned forward, putting his fists on the table. “Have you all gone so soft, here in the south? We give you silver cups and plates, and yet when someone comes in here and spews poison into your ears, you clap, and drink his toast! What in Oblivion is the silver for, then? The Thalmor armies stomp all across your fields, burning your towns, torching your farmlands, killing your people, and you would sit here and just listen to their lies? You just lap them up, like dogs!

“They slaughtered Imperial agents and dumped their heads in front of our Emperor, in his own palace! They used lies and assassinations to tear Elsweyr and Valenwood from the Empire! Even now this Altmer _termagant_  here sends her soldiers all across Hammerfell, so the Dominion can claim it for their own! And you sit here and drink a toast to their prattle about _justice!_ Is this how you honor the valor of Tiber Septim - of _Talos?_ ”

There was an outcry, from several quarters. Lord Naarifin stood up and began shouting angrily at the Jarl. Lady Arannelya sat stiffly, practically radiating umbrage. Some were on their feet, appealing for calm, Lord Jemane among them. Others were pointing accusing fingers at Jarl Hrolfdir, who seemed utterly unperturbed and appeared quite ready to begin laying about with his hammer-like fists. My guards and I were only able to restore a degree of order when I unsheathed my sword a bare fraction, the cue for them to follow suit all around room. Only then did the tumult subside somewhat, though there was still a deal of angry muttering around the table.

The Jarl’s strident voice rose above the din. “Is this the Empire that claims our allegiance? Gutless worms wrapped in finery, stuffing your mouths with sweetmeats like children, bowing and simpering before the Thalmor?

“Hear me well, Naarifin, Arannelya. You may find these southerners easy prey, but we in Skyrim aren’t so easily deceived. Our memories are not so short. We remember the sagas of Ysgramor and his Five Hundred just as well as we remember what happened on the 30th of Frostfall. If you even think of trying to do to us what you’re doing to these poor saps, we’d be happy to share our cultural heritage with you. Starting with the stories about Ysgramor and his elf-killing axe Wuuthrad. I’d be happy to tell you all of them myself.

“Skyrim will not forgive or forget the 30th of Frostfall. Skyrim will not abandon Talos. Skyrim will fight for the Empire he forged with his will and his Voice. We shall not flag or fail. We shall fight you to the end. We shall fight in Cyrodiil, we shall fight in Hammerfell, we shall fight on the shores of Lake Rumare. We shall fight with faith in the Stormcrown and steel in our hands. We shall defend our freedoms from the Thalmor, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight in the mountains, we shall fight in the woods, we shall fight in the villages and in the city streets. We shall never surrender.”

He snatched up another goblet, this one filled with liquor. “I propose a toast of my own!” he roared, for indeed that is the only proper word to describe how he was speaking. “A toast - to Talos!”

Only his fellow Nords joined him in that toast, drinking and cheering boisterously. All along the rest of the table, there was a sort of stunned silence, and no one moved. Laughing raucously, the Skyrim contingent proceeded to commit the grossly indecorous act of leaving the table as a body, making for the doors, in flagrant disrespect of all rules of etiquette. Before too long, they were gone from the manor entirely. I confess that it was with a sense of relief that I ordered the main doors shut behind them, after the last of them had departed, and returned to the dining hall.

Lord Jemane had risen to his feet. “Well, certainly the Jarl was… exhilaratingly frank,” he remarked, to a gust of laughter. His words evidently brought some much-needed relief to the tension that had taken hold in the wake of Jarl Hrolfdir’s words. “I only wish,” Lord Jemane continued, seemingly emboldened by the receptive response, “that the Jarl had seen fit to remain a little longer, for I would have had some things to say to him myself. I hope it is not presumptuous of me, but I would have liked him to know that on several key points he and I clearly have a difference of opinion. What he loosely termed ‘valor’, I will instead describe as ‘intemperate obstreperousness’, for indeed that seems closer to what he himself seemed to be living testimony of. What he chose to call ‘cowardice’, I choose instead to recognize as ‘honor’.”

This brought a loud murmur of assent with several calls of “hear, hear” and a smattering of applause.

“It is clear to me,” he continued, with a voice grown resonant from confidence, “that we here have come together with a common desire to see fair play prevail in Tamriel. We may be technically enemies at the moment, Lord Naarifin, Lady Arannelya,” he said, addressing the two personages, “because our respective governments have entered a state of war. Yet there is such a thing as mutual respect between honored adversaries. After a state of war comes the longed-for peace, always, and then enemies are no longer such, but may come together as friends. But harboring grudges and nursing resentment help this friendship not at all. If that kind of vindictiveness is to be understood as ‘valor’, then I for one don’t much care for it, and have no wish to acquire it.”

This pronouncement was met with a loud burst of approval and a bout of sustained applause. Lord Naarifin and Lady Arannelya both rose to their feet and inclined their heads towards Lord Jemane in a gesture of respect. I noticed, however, that Arcturus Valga simply sat, smiling at his goblet and shaking his head wearily.

It was just around this stage of the proceedings that I felt another tug at my sleeve, and I turned to see that it was indeed the Argonian maid again. “Please, sir, it’s Matron. She’s just outside the door.”

Once again, I signaled Guardswoman Lyra over to take my place, and followed the maid. “Oh, the old sir, he’s gone very poorly,” the girl said, when we were outside the room with Michel Lylvieve, and she burst into tears.

Michel motioned for me to follow her, but as she walked she moved with a curious lack of urgency in her manner. At the foot of the steps, beside the statuette of Vivec, she stopped and turned.

“Sir Stefan, I’m very sorry. Your father passed away a few minutes ago.”

“I see.”

She looked at her hands, and then up at my face. “Stefan, I’m very sorry,” she said. Then she added, “I wish there was something I could say.”

“There’s no need, Michel.”

“The priest of Stendarr has not yet arrived.” Then for a moment she bowed her head and a sob escaped her. But almost immediately, she recovered her composure and resumed speaking in a steady voice. “Will you come up and see him?”

“I’m very busy just now, Michel. In a little while, perhaps.”

“In that case, Stefan, will you permit me to close his eyes?”

“I would be most grateful, Michel.”

“And I will see to arrangements, when the priest arrives.”

“Thank you, Michel.”

She turned to go, and I said, “Michel. Please don’t think me unduly improper in not ascending to see my father in his deceased condition just at this moment. You see, I know my father would have wished me to carry on just now.”

“Of course, Stefan.”

“To do otherwise, I feel, would be to let him down.”

“Of course, Stefan.”

I think it was at that juncture that she reached into her apron pockets and pulled out her embroidered handkerchief, and passed it into my hands. I must have then ensconced it within one of my own pockets before returning to the banquet hall.

There seemed now to be a genuinely celebratory mood in the chamber. The courses were served, one after the other, and after some time the guests were on their feet and mingling.

“Well, Stefan, it didn’t go any better than what I’d hoped for.”

It was Arcturus, who had come up to talk to me. He seemed gloomy as he surveyed the room. Lord Jemane was at that moment engaged in rather animated conversation with the two Aldmeri Dominion generals, and all three seemed to be in good humor.

“I can’t say I expected better out of the Nords, either. Hrolfdir was the worst possible choice the Jarls could have made for diplomatic missions. But then again, that was quite the rousing speech he gave, wasn’t it… I say, Stefan, are you feeling quite all right?”

I smiled and said, “Quite all right, your Excellency, thank you for asking.”

“No, no. Don’t be formal with me just now, Stefan, I’m not in the mood. As I was saying, Jarl Hrolfdir is quite the influential figure, and his incendiary sentiments aren’t limited to… I say, Stefan. Are you quite sure you’re all right, there?”

“Perfectly all right, Arcturus, thank you.”

“Are you… feeling unwell, Stefan?”

“Not at all, Arcturus. Please excuse me.”

I proceeded to stand nearer to his Lordship, which was the right and proper place for me to be. He noticed me, and seemed to give a start. After taking his leave of the two Altmer dignitaries, he came over to me.

“Sir Stefan, are you all right?”

“Certainly, milord. Perfectly.”

“You look as though you’re crying.”

I laughed and taking out a handkerchief - Michel’s handkerchief - I quickly wiped my face. It was at that moment that the smell of it entered my nostrils and struck my senses, leaving a vivid sensory impression. It was the mixed scent of hyacinth and winter aconite.

“I’m sorry, milord. The strains of a hard day.”

“Yes, it’s been hard work. You’ve done very well, Stefan.” He seemed about to say more, but just at that moment someone addressed him and he turned away to make reply.

I turned away also, and found myself face to face with the Lady Arannelya. She smiled, and took hold of my elbow.

“Our gallant Captain of the Guard. My compatriot and I are indebted to you this evening, Captain, for your vigilant protection.”

“Only my duty, milady. The safety of everyone here is my chief concern.”

“You and your guards have certainly made us all feel quite safe. You are to be commended.”

“Thank you most kindly, milady. Only our duty.”

“You are tall for a Breton,” she commented, as she looked into my eyes - our faces were almost on a level, and she only had to tilt her head down very slightly to fix me with her gaze. “The Mer-blood must run most strongly in your veins.” She laughed.

I laughed also and said, “That is possible, Lady Arannelya.”

“You have the advantage of me, Captain. I do not know your name.”

“I have the honor to be Sir Stefan Stentor,” I said, making a little bow. I had been on the verge of appending “the Younger”, as was my custom, but I managed to stop myself in time.

“Sir Stefan. I hope our paths may cross again some day. Perhaps one day you can come visit me, in Hammerfell. I may be taking up residence in Hegathe within the next few months.”

“I should be grateful for any such opportunity, milady.”

The rest of the evening proceeded in rather unremarkable fashion. As for the Conference as a whole, I will say that for my part, my guards and myself were fully able to meet any challenges that arose, and from this professional perspective the Conference was a most encouraging success. With regard to the wider ramifications of the Conference, I will not need to dwell very much upon Lord Naarifin’s attack on and seizure of the Imperial City, or on all the events that transpired afterwards leading to his death, the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, and the forcible secession of Hammerfell from the Empire. Nor will I need to delve too deeply into such distasteful topics as the actions of Lady Arannelya in Hammerfell, or the fate that befell her eventually.

Let me be clear that the Conference was, in terms of my own humble professional development, a crucial turning point. If one considers the pressures upon me that night, one will not consider me deluded for thinking that perhaps I did display, in the face of everything, a staunch devotion to the honorable performance of my duty, of which my father could perhaps have been proud. Indeed, why should I deny it? I feel sure he would have been proud of me. So it is that for all its sad associations, whenever I recall that evening I find that I do so with a large sense of triumph.

And I find now that I also do so with a faint memory of a mixed scent, the smell of hyacinth and winter aconite.


	7. Dragon Bridge - Four Shields Tavern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "True journey is return." -Ursula K. Le Guin
> 
> This chapter contains adaptations of W.B. Yeats's "When You Are Old" and Khalil Gibran's "The Prophet".

I arrived in Dragon Bridge yesterday afternoon, and it is now the evening of my second day here. I must say, it is something of a relief to be taking a break from traveling, as pleasant as it has been to see the countryside. As enjoyable as it can be to appreciate the cold, stark beauty of Skyrim, one can grow weary of it after a while.

The sight of the great stone bridge leading to the town was indeed as impressive as I had been told it would be. There is certainly a sense one gets of the sheer age of the ancient structure, which spans the great Karth River before it spills out into the Sea of Ghosts. It is difficult to imagine the days in ages past during which Dragons ruled, and all mortals lived under their claws in perpetual fear. And yet today, it would seem that these legends have sprung to life out of the very dirt we walk upon, and the skies once again hear the beat of dragon wings. These are truly remarkable times we live in.

Rochelle and I have taken rooms at the Four Shields Tavern. We were whiling away some time after finishing our lunch, when I chanced to overhear a conversation between the innkeeper, a Nord woman named Faida, and the young barmaid.

“There’s still so much I have to learn, Miss Faida!” the young girl was saying.

“You’ve been working hard all these years. I’m sure you’ll make a fine innkeeper someday, Julienne Lylvieve.”

“If the Nine are willing!”

At this, I could not help but rise to my feet and approach the bar.

“Pardon me, but I could not help overhearing. May I inquire as to your name, Miss…”

“I’m Julienne Lylvieve. Why… why are you asking, sir?”

“My apologies. Please, do not be alarmed. It is simply that… would you by any chance happen to know a certain Michel Lylvieve?”

“She’s my mother.”

“Ah. I see.”

“You know the Lylvieves?” the innkeeper Faida put in. “Quiet family, but they’re the heart of Dragon Bridge. Julienne, it’s all right. This man’s a Breton knight. Probably a friend of your mother’s. Do you know them, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Indeed, I have come to Dragon Bridge for the express purpose of visiting your mother, Julienne. Sir Stefan Stentor, at your service.” I smiled and gave a polite bow. “She and I are very old acquaintances, and we have been in the habit of exchanging letters for the past… almost thirty years now, I believe.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” Julienne beamed. It was truly remarkable how I had failed to notice it before, but she truly was the very image of Michel. I found myself temporarily at a loss for words just then, as I contemplated her visage.

Fortunately, neither woman seemed to notice my distracted state. “Julienne, is your mother at home right now? You should go tell her, a visitor from afar has come calling,” Faida said.

“If you can spare me, Miss Faida…”

“Look around,” Faida laughed. “I can manage. Go on now, fetch your mother! Please, have a seat, sir,” she said, addressing me. “I’ll pour you and your companion a drink each. On the house, for any friend of Michel and Azzada.”

Azzada, as I recalled, was the name of Michel’s husband, a Redguard man of uncertain background. He had opted, clearly, to take Michel’s family name instead of giving her his own.

I expressed my appreciation of the innkeeper’s generosity, and returned to the table. Rochelle at that point stood up to leave.

“Need to stretch my legs. I’ll just stroll around town a bit, maybe go down to the bridge and get a look at the horizon. Good view, there.”

I murmured my assent. She took a step away, paused, and turned around.

“Have a good one, old man.” Then she departed.

And so it was that in the corner of the tavern room which I occupied there was no one else around when Michel Lylvieve came walking in through the door, and our eyes met.

She came forward, holding out her hand, her face wreathed in smiles. “Sir Stefan. What a surprise! How lovely to see you again. What brings you all the way here to Skyrim, and this far north?”

“Michel Lylvieve, how lovely.”

We sat together, for the next two hours or so, under the flickering light of the wall lamp. She had naturally aged somewhat, but to my eyes at least she had done so very gracefully. Her figure remained slim, her posture as upright as ever. Her comportment was as admirable as it had ever been, as elegant as on the day I first laid eyes on her. Of course, with the quality of the light falling upon her face, I could hardly help but notice the faint lines that had appeared here and there. But by and large the Michel Lylvieve sitting before me was the same person who had inhabited my memory over these years. Indeed, and why should I not say it, it was, on the whole, extremely pleasant to see her again.

For the first twenty minutes or so I would say that we exchanged the sort of remarks that friendly strangers might; she inquired politely about my journey thus far, the places I had visited, and so on. As we continued to talk, I must say I thought I began to notice further, more subtle changes which the years had wrought on her. She seemed more sedate than she used to be, less spirited than I remembered. Certainly a sort of calmness can be said to come with age, and perhaps it was nothing more than that, but I could not entirely escape the feeling that what I was seeing was a sort of weariness with life itself. At times, when she was not speaking, I thought I glimpsed something like a kind of sadness in her expression when her face was in repose. Of course, I could well have been mistaken.

After a little while, what little initial awkwardness there had been disappeared entirely, and soon our conversation took a more personal turn. It was most enjoyable, I must say, to speak with her like this again, as we regularly and frequently did during our evening chats. It was the little things - the way her lips quirked when she smiled, the ironic teasing manner she had of speaking, certain little gestures she made with her fingers - that began to recall unmistakably the rhythms and habits of our conversations from all those years ago.

It was around this point, also, that I was able to establish that her marriage was not in quite as parlous a state as might have been supposed from her letters; that although she had indeed left her home intermittently, for a few days at a time, she had returned on each occasion, and her husband Azzada had been very happy to have her back. “It’s just as well one of us is sensible about these things,” she said with a smile.

“Of course, I do not mean to pry into your private affairs, Michel…”

“Oh, don’t say that, Stefan. If I can’t confide in you, I’m afraid there’s nobody else I could confide in.”

“We have certainly had a long friendship.”

“Yes. Yes, we have.”

“Your daughter… Julienne, was it? She seems a very intelligent young woman. She certainly exhibits a good deal of verve. Very encouraging to see.”

“Yes, she was so thrilled to meet you. She’s heard all about you, you know.”

“Has she now?”

“Oh, most certainly,” she said, laughing, “she has heard all too many stories about my time at Weatherleah, I’m sure! I’m afraid I’ve presented a rather comic picture of our interactions, at times!”

I thought Michel looked visibly happier at the mention of the manor, and soon we were sharing recollections and laughing together over various old memories.

Only once do I recall touching upon the subject of Lord Jemane. We had been enjoying some fond recollections concerning Arcturus Valga, Viscount of Chorrol, and I was obliged to inform her that our old friend had been killed in the fighting, during the Battle of the Red Ring. And then I had gone on to say, “He acquitted himself most admirably, I was told. He was always more valiant than he believed himself to be. Of course, his Lordship took the news very badly.”

Not wishing to spoil the pleasant atmosphere with unhappy talk, I attempted to steer the conversation around to other topics. But Michel seemed keen to know more about what had happened to Lord Jemane, especially in the years immediately after the signing of the Concordat. I resisted being drawn in, but in the end I had to tell her somewhat of those years.

“The fact is, his Lordship’s name was one of several being dragged through the mud. The people of Cyrodiil, indeed of the whole Empire, were understandably looking for easy targets to blame for their suffering. He bore it for as long as he could, but eventually the insinuations became too vile to endure. He was deprived of his seat on the Elder Council, and indeed he became removed entirely from the hub of great events. Really, Michel, his last years were spent practically as an invalid. The house had become so quiet. I would see him sitting with a days-old pot of tea in the drawing room, and… It really was most tragic to see.”

“I’m very sorry, Stefan. I had no idea things had become so bad.”

“Indeed, Michel. Ah, but enough of this. I know you remember Weatherleah in her glory days, when scarcely a day went by without some distinguished visitor or another, and the grounds were a delight to walk upon. That’s the way his Lordship deserves to be remembered.”

We spent only a little time speaking of such things, I recall, and the hours seemed to rush by. Eventually, however, Michel sighed and said with some regret that she would have to be returning home. I accompanied her outside, and walked with her down the main thoroughfare of the town.

Night had all but fallen, and the last rays of the setting sun were fading away from the sky. It had been raining, and large puddles had formed on the muddy ground. Michel found herself obliged to take hold of my arm several times to assist in her footing. Soon, however, we found ourselves on drier soil, as we approached her homestead. It was a tidy little cottage perched high up on a slope, commanding a good view of the sea, and so I turned to look.

It was at this point that Michel turned to me and said, “What are you smiling to yourself about, Stefan?”

“Oh… you must excuse me, Michel. It is simply that I was recalling certain things you had written in your letters to me. I was a little worried when I read them, but now I see I had little reason to be.”

“Oh? What things do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing much in particular, Michel.”

“Really, Stefan, you must tell me.”

“Well, if you must know,” I said with a little laugh, “I will tell you, since it is a fact that we may not meet again for a long time. I had thought you were… unhappy, in your marriage. I had thought that perhaps you were… please forgive me, Michel, if I am being intrusive. But I was troubled to think that perhaps you were… being ill-treated in some way. Some of the things you mentioned in your letters suggested to me that this could have been the case. It’s something that has been troubling me, and I do feel foolish now, since I see that my concerns were unfounded after all.”

“Stefan, there’s no need to feel foolish. We’re old friends, aren’t we? In fact, I’m very touched that you should feel so concerned for me. And I can put your mind at rest on this matter absolutely. My husband Azzada is a good man. He does not mistreat me at all in any way. He is not in the least cruel or ill-tempered.”

“I must say, Michel, that does take a great load off my mind.”

“I can see you’re not very satisfied, Stefan. Do you not believe me?”

“Of course not, Michel, I do believe you. It’s simply that… that is to say… please forgive me, but, you have taken it upon yourself to leave your husband, on several occasions. If he does not mistreat you, then, well… one is rather mystified as to the cause of your unhappiness.”

I stood, gazing out towards the dark ribbon of the Sea of Ghosts, while Michel stood quietly beside me. Eventually, I heard her say, “Stefan, how can I explain? I barely understand myself sometimes. I hardly know why I do the things I do. But it’s true, I’ve left three times now.”

She paused a moment, during which time I continued to look out and away from her. Then she said, “I suppose, Stefan, you’re asking me if I love my husband.”

“Really, Michel, I would hardly presume…”

“I feel I should answer you, Stefan. As you say, we may not meet again for a long time. Yes, I do love my husband. I didn’t at first. When I left Weatherleah Manor all those years ago, I never realized I was really, truly leaving. If you can credit it, Stefan, in my heart of hearts… I thought of it as another ruse to, to trick you, or annoy you. It was a shock to me, to come up north all the way here to Skyrim, to Dragon Bridge, and to find myself married. For a long time, I was unhappy, very unhappy indeed. But then… year after year went by, Julienne was born, and she grew up… and one day I realized, I loved my husband. When you spend so much time with someone, you realize you can grow to get used to that person. He’s a kind, steady man, and yes, Stefan, I’ve grown to love him.”

She fell silent again for a moment. Then she went on, “But that doesn’t mean to say, of course… that there aren’t certain occasions every now and then… extremely desolate occasions… when you think to yourself, ‘What a terrible mistake I’ve made with my life.’ And then you get to thinking about a different, _better_  life you might have had.

“For instance, I get to thinking about a life I might have had with you, Stefan. And I suppose that’s when I get angry over some trivial thing, and leave.

“But each time I do, I realize before too long that regrets don’t change anything. There’s no turning back the clock. One can’t forever be dwelling on all the might-have-beens. One should appreciate what one has, and I know I have better than most. So I have to be grateful. I am grateful. My rightful place is here, with my family.”

I do not think I responded immediately, for it took me a few moments to fully absorb her words. Moreover, as one might appreciate, their implications were such as to provoke a certain degree of sorrow in me. Indeed, and why should I deny it, at that moment, my heart was breaking.

But before long, however, I turned to her, smiled, and said, “You’re very correct, Michel Lylvieve. As you say, it is too late to turn back the clock. Indeed, I would be uneasy if I thought such ideas were the cause of unhappiness between you and your husband. We must each of us, as you point out, be grateful for what we do have. And from all that I can see, Michel, you have every reason to be well-contented. In fact I would venture to say, with the worst of the recent troubles in Skyrim over, and your promising daughter finding her place in the world, that you and your husband have some extremely happy years before you. You really mustn’t let any more foolish ideas come between you and the happiness you deserve.”

“Of course you’re right, Stefan. Thank you.”

I perceived then that her eyes had filled with tears. I smiled and said, “Now, Michel, you must take good care of yourself. I hope with all my heart that these will be some very happy years ahead for you and your family. You must do all you can to make them so. We may never meet again, Michel, and so I would ask you to take good heed of what I am saying.”

“I will, Stefan, thank you. And thank you, for coming. For making the journey. It was wonderful to see you again.”

“It was a great pleasure to see you again, Michel.”

She held out her hand to me. I took it, bent down, and touched my lips to her fingers once more.

“Goodbye, Stefan.”

“Goodbye, Michel.”

My footsteps took me down to the ancient stone bridge, with its carven arches in the likeness of dragon heads. I saw no sign of Rochelle the Red, but there was a lone figure standing in the middle of the bridge, leaning against the side and looking out to the sea.

At my approach, she - for as I drew nearer I could see that it was a woman - turned to me, and smiled. From a distance, her build was such as to suggest a man, since she possessed a thickness of limb and a muscular bulkiness that was uncommon even among the Nord women I’d seen. But the curve of her jawline beneath her horned half-helm, and the contours of her chest that became visible as the distance between us diminished, served to dispel that impression.

She had the vagrant look of a mercenary, wearing what I took at first for studded rawhide and bone spurs. Her right shoulder was bare, and her left shoulder - turned towards me - was covered in a massive pauldron, fashioned in the shape of a gigantic fang. On her back she had slung a huge round shield, painted all in black (or so I thought at first). At her belt she wore a longsword with a decorative pommel, which in the poor light appeared initially to be a wolf’s head.

I stopped a short distance away from her, and made a little bow. “I hope this evening finds you well, traveler.”

She smiled, and nodded.

For some reason, I felt completely at ease in this silent stranger’s company. She did not seem to be a bandit, though she had the air of a well-traveled wayfarer. Sir Doric would have liked her on sight, I expect.

I leaned on the side of the bridge, as she was doing, and looked out to the sea. The moons were out - Secunda stood at the full, but already Masser was on the wane. The light that was cast upon us was, consequently, of a pale milkish tint, almost suggestive of bleached bone.

“This is my first time in Skyrim.”

I am not entirely sure what induced me to say that to her, but at my words she simply smiled, and nodded, and angled her body towards me slightly as an indication of polite interest.

“Indeed, it’s my first time out of my home region. County Chorrol, in Colovia. I mean to say, I grew up in Menevia, in High Rock, for the first five years of my life, but really, I’ve known no other home than Weatherleah Manor, in County Chorrol. I don’t suppose I can say I recall much of my birthplace, really, but for some reason I often seem to recollect some fragment of memory that I associate with the place. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Very vague recollections, regrettably.”

She smiled, and nodded.

“I’ve never traveled much, but my current employer - a knight, like myself, but he has followed a very different path in life, very different indeed - my current employer, Sir Doric of Alcaire, is positively mad with wanderlust. He can barely stay in one place for more than a few days, it seems! Sometimes I do wonder to myself if he bought Weatherleah Manor only so that he has somewhere to stash some of his more valuable acquisitions from his frequent adventuring trips,” I remarked, with a laugh. “Indeed, his true home can be more accurately said to be the countryside.”

She smiled, chuckled, and nodded.

“I have just this moment come from a much-anticipated reunion with a very old friend. It was lovely. We had a very good time reminiscing about the old days together. We were colleagues, you know. At Weatherleah. I am Captain of the Guard and Master-at-Arms at Weatherleah, taking over the latter role from my father. I’ve served in both roles for nigh unto thirty years now. She was the Matron - I mean, my friend, Michel Lylvieve, who now lives here in Dragon Bridge. She first came to the manor as a chambermaid, but rose very high, very quickly, by dint of her excellent and admirable qualities. I am very pleased to have seen her and spoken to her again. I am very pleased that she has a good life now, perhaps an enviable life, one could say. I am very happy for her indeed.”

She smiled, and nodded.

“I’m very tired,” I said suddenly, and I am sure I do not know why. “I’m so tired. So many things are… vexatious. I do my best, I do my part, I try to play the proper role in all things, as I was taught. But the way people talk…! It is as if they have no sense of the way things ought to be, in the world. It is as if they don’t have the requisite senses to distinguish the good things in the world from the bad. They… they turn the highest, noblest things into dross, just with their carelessly uttered words.”

She made a moue, and tilted her head to the side.

“I mean to say… I’ve tried. I’ve tried my best, my very best. All my life I have been trying. I’ve given it my very best, in whatever I have done. I’ve tried to live with honor, to act with mercy, to always do my duty. The fact is, I gave my best to Lord Jemane. I gave him the very best I had to give, and now - well - I find I do not have a great deal more left to give.”

She said nothing, but looked slightly downcast.

“Since my new employer Sir Doric arrived, I’ve tried very hard, very hard indeed, to give him what I gave Lord Jemane, to provide him the same sort of leal service I used to give. I’ve tried and tried, but whatever I do seems to fall short. Nothing is the same. Nothing seems to have as much meaning as it used to, for me. Goodness knows, I’ve tried, and tried, but I gave it all. It’s no use. I’ve given it all. I have nothing left to give. I gave it all to Lord Jemane.”

She made a sound of concern then, and straightened up. She fumbled within a satchel at her waist for some moments, then grunted with satisfaction as she withdrew an object from it.

It was a piece of cloth - a handkerchief. She smiled, nodded, and held it out to me.

It was an embroidered handkerchief, and the embroidery was of a kind native to Menevia. That fact suddenly made itself clear in my mind.

I dabbed at my eyes with the handkerchief, and my nose caught the scent. A mixed smell, a light but distinctive perfume. The mingled fragrance of hyacinth and winter aconite.

I continued speaking. “Lord Jemane wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t a bad man at all. At least, at the end of his life, he was able to say he made his own mistakes. He was a courageous man. He chose his path in life, he took it, he walked down that path even though others mocked him, berated him, insulted him for doing so. It proved to be a misguided path, yes, but he __chose__  it. He can say that at least. I cannot even claim that for myself. You see, I _trusted_. I trusted in his Lordship’s judgement. I trusted in the codes I had thought I understood, that governed my life. All those years I served Lord Roland Jemane III, all those years I put myself aside to serve a greater good, I thought I was doing something worthwhile. I can’t even say I made my own mistakes. Really, one has to ask oneself - where is the honor in that? What mercy do I deserve for the things I did, or failed to do? And what, what was my duty? _What was it?_ ”

She put a hand comfortingly on my shoulder, and waited.

Eventually, as I regained my composure, I looked up and was able to take in a few more pertinent details about my quiet companion.

She was not clad in rawhide or even cured leather, as I had presumed at first - it was some sort of scaled skin I had never seen before. The fang that jutted out from her pauldron was of a size that could not be boasted by any creature I was familiar with. The shield on her back was not in fact painted black, but was rather a solid lump of ebony, and consequently its weight must have been incredible - yet it did not seem to encumber her. The pommel on her sword was a stylized representation of, not a wolf’s head, but a dragon’s.

Slowly I began to realize the likely identity of the person who was standing with me, in that moment, on the Dragon Bridge.

Then what else was there left to do, but to hold on to the piece of the past she had just given me, and to stand before her, and ask, “Will you… Speak to me?”

She smiled, and nodded.

Then she began to speak - to Speak. And the odd thing is, I am sure I could not understand a single word that was coming from her mouth. That is to say, I could not understand the language she was using, if indeed it was a language. Yet, the __meaning__  of her words was perfectly clear to me, such that I can record them down here. I am not a man given to flights of fancy, but it seemed to me, in that moment, that the sky itself was speaking into my bones.

This is what I heard her say:

Now you are old, and grey, but not yet full of sleep;  
Evening comes, its book unfolds across the sky.  
Love has not fled;  
Look not amid the crowd of orphaned stars,  
But look up at the book, and read the pages thereof.  
In the sleeve of the dream, you will find again  
The soft look of her eyes, and their shadows deep;  
Her moments of glad grace will accompany your pilgrim soul.  
Her hands will soothe the sorrows of your changing face.  
You gave but little when you gave of your possessions:  
It is when you gave of yourself that you truly gave.  
For those who give with joy, joy is their reward;  
For those who give in pain, it is a new birth.  
Your pain is the bitter potion by which the healer within you  
Ministers to your sickness. Trust therefore in the healer,  
And drink her remedy in tranquility.  
The hidden wellsprings in your soul must needs rise  
And run murmuring to the shore of dreams.  
True journey is return;  
Fill your sails with the wind of your going,  
And be free.

I do not recall when I returned here, to my room at the inn, but here I am. I cannot help but marvel at this strange chance that should bring me face to face with a personage of whom so much has been said that she has already passed into the realm of legend, even while she lives and walks the face of Nirn. And even as I write, the handkerchief she gave me is close at hand, and I cannot conceive of how it came to be given to me, on that bridge, from her hand, into my keeping. Perhaps I have the Divines to thank, but I am utterly unsure as to which one has been responsible for my encounter tonight. Possibly I should thank them all.

I have heard of the great temple in Solitude, where I can offer my prayers. On the morrow, I think, I shall make for Solitude. It would be good to see the much-vaunted provincial capital and stay for a few days. Even from here, in Dragon Bridge, one can see the silhouette of the Blue Palace if the skies are clear. Perhaps I should go and pay a visit to great-great-great-great-great-grandaunt Sybille Stentor, and introduce myself. I am sure there will be no harm in doing so. If she were the kind of vampire to become a deadly scourge, she would not have risen to occupy the exalted position she does today. And after all, she is family.

And then, afterwards… I suppose I will take ship at Solitude’s docks, for Menevia. Perhaps I should go by way of Glenumbra, and cross overland, if I can find a ship heading to High Rock. I could send Lucky Lady back to Weatherleah with Rochelle the Red - I feel quite sure, oddly enough, that I can entrust her with this task, and I also feel quite sure she will agree to do this favor for me. I will have to compose a letter of apology to Sir Doric for my unexpectedly extended absence, but somehow, I think he will not be too upset.

Yes, upon reflection, I do think he will understand, and perhaps even approve. My newfound desire to travel, I think, will not seem like a foolish impulse to him. He may even be pleasantly surprised at my change of plans.

Yes. I shall see my birthplace again. “True journey is return.” I am very much looking forward to it.

I am going home.


End file.
